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This text has been proofread but is not guaranteed to be free from errors. Corrections to the original text have been left in place.
Title: Aunt Anne, an electronic edition
Author: Clifford, W.K., Mrs., d.1929
Publisher: Harper & Brothers
Place published: New York
Date: 1892
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AUNT ANNEA NovelBY MRS. W.K. CLIFFORDAUTHOR
OF "LOVE LETTERS OF A WORLDLY WOMAN""MRS. KEITH'S CRIME"
ETC.As less the golden glow abidesAnd less the chillier heart aspiresWith drift-wood beached in past spring-tidesWe light our sullen firesJames Russell LowellNEW YORKHARPER & BROTHERS,Franklin
Square1892Copyright information for Mrs. Clifford's Aunt Anne.AUNT ANNECHAPTER IMR. and MRS. WALTER HIBBERT had been married just four months when
Aunt Anne first appeared on the scene. They were at Brighton, whither
they had gone from Friday to Tuesday, so that Mr. Hibbert might get
braced up after a hard spell of work. Besides doing his usual
journalism, he had been helping a friend with a popular educational
weekly, and altogether "had slaved quite wickedly," so his wife
said. But he had declared that, though he found matrimony, as far as
he had gone, very delightful, it had to be paid for, especially at the
beginning of its career, when it ran into furniture, linen, plate, and
expensive presents to a dear little wife, though the expensiveness of
the last he generously kept to himself. So it resulted in the visit to
Brighton. They spent the happiest four days in the world there, and
felt quite sad when Tuesday morning arrived. But they wisely did their
best to forget that the evening train would take them back to London,
and resolved that their last day should pass merrily."Suppose we have a long drowsy morning on the pier," she suggested. "Nothing is nicer or more restful than to listen to the band and look down into the water. We needn't see the horrid people--indeed, if we sit on one of
the end seats and keep our faces turned seawards, we can forget that they even exist."Mr. Hibbert solemnly considered the proposal."The only drawback is the music--it makes so much noise; that's the worst of music--it always does," he said, sadly. "Another thing is, that I cannot lie full length on the pier as I can on the beach.""Very well, then we'll go to the beach. The worst of the beach is, that we can't look down into the water, as we can from the end of the pier.""That's true; and then there are lots of pretty girls on the pier, and I like to see them, for then I know that there are some left--for the other fellows," he added, nobly.So they went to the pier, and sat on one of the side seats at the far end, and looked down into the water, and blinked their happy eyes at the sunshine. And they felt as if all the beautiful world belonged to them, as if they two together were being drawn dreamily on and on into the sky, and sea, and light, to make one glorious whole with happy nature; but a whole in which they would be forever conscious of being together, and never less sleepy or blissful than now. This was Walter's idea, and he said it all in his dear, romantic way that generally ended up with a laugh. "It would never do, you know, because we should get nothing to eat.""Don't," she said. "That is so like you; you always spoil a beautiful idea, you provoking thing," and she rubbed her chin against the back of the seat and looked down more intently at the water. Without any one in the least suspecting it, he managed to stoop and kiss her hand, while he pretended to be trying to see something at the top of a wave that of course was not there.They were having a delightful morning; they lived in
every moment of it, and wished it would never come to an end; still, when it did, there would be a delicious luncheon to go back to--very large prawns, roast chicken and green pease, and an enormous dish of ripe figs, which both their souls loved. After all, Walter thought, the world was not a bad place, especially when you had a wife who adored you and thought that everything you did bore the stamp of genius.The band was playing a waltz, though to this day they do not know it. All manner of people were passing to and fro, but they did not notice them."I should like to stay here forever," Mrs. Hibbert said, with a sweet sigh of content. "Do you know, Walter," she went on, suddenly, after a pause, "it will be four months to-morrow since we were married? Time seems to have flown.""By Jove! it really is a miracle what those four months have done with themselves," he answered, looking up for a moment, as if to be sure that Time was not a conjurer standing before him, about to hand the four months from beneath a handkerchief, with a polite bow and the remark that they would have to be lived through at the ordinary rate.A spare-looking old lady, dressed in black, passed by, but he did not notice her."You see," he went on, with his eyes fixed on a sailing boat in the distance, "if things were always going to be--"At the sound of his voice the lady in black, who was only a few yards off, stopped, listened, hesitated, and, turning suddenly back, stood before him. He recognized her in a moment."Aunt Anne!" he exclaimed. His voice was amiable, but embarrassed, as if he did not quite know what to do next."My dear Walter," she said, with a sigh, and in a tone of great relief, "I am so glad to find you; I went to your lodgings--I saw your name and address in the 'visitors' list yesterday--but you were out; then I thought I might find you here. And this is your wife? My dear Florence, I am so glad to see you!"Till that moment Mrs. Walter Hibbert had never heard of the existence of Aunt Anne, but Aunt Anne had evidently heard of Mrs. Hibbert. She knew her Christian name, and called her by it as naturally as if she had been at her christening. She stretched out a small hand covered with a black thread glove as she spoke, and held Florence's fingers affectionately in hers. Florence looked at her a little wonderingly. Aunt Anne was slight and old, nearly sixty perhaps. All over her face there were little lines that crossed and re-crossed and branched off in every direction. She had gray hair, and small, dark eyes that blinked quickly and nervously; there appeared to be some trifling affection of the left eye, for now and then, as if by accident, it seemed to be winking at you. The odd thing was that, in spite of her evident tendency to nervous excitement, her shabby black satin dress, almost threadbare shawl, and cheap gloves, there was an air of dignity about the spare old lady, and something like determination in her kindly voice that, joined to her impulsive tenderness, made you quickly understand she would be a very difficult person to oppose."Dear boy," she said, gently, to Walter, " why didn't you write to me when you married? You know how glad I should have been to hear of your happiness.""Why didn't you write to me, Aunt Anne?" he asked, gayly turning the tables."Yes, I ought to have done so. You must forgive me, dears, for being so remiss," she said, looking at them both.
"And believe me that it was from no lack of affection.Then she went on, quickly, "We must not waste our time. You are coming to Rottingdean with me, and at once. Mr. Baines is longing to see you both.""But we can't go now, Aunt Anne," Walter declared in his kindest manner; "we must get back to the lodgings. We told them to have luncheon ready at one o'clock, and to-night we go home. Couldn't you come and lunch with us?""My dear Walter," she said, with a look of dismay, and in a voice that was almost pained, "what would your uncle say? I could not possibly return without you.""But he has never seen me, Aunt Anne.""That is one reason why he would never forgive me if I did not take you back.""But it is so far; we should be all day getting there," Walter objected, a little helplessly, for he felt already that Aunt Anne would carry her point."It is only to Rottingdean"--she spoke with hurt surprise--"and we will drive. I saw a beautiful fly as I was coming on to the pier, and engaged it. I know you too well, my darling, to think you will refuse me."Her manner had changed in a moment; she said the last words with soft triumph, and looked at Florence the while. The sight of the young wife seemed to be too much for her; there was something like a tear in the left eye, the one that winked, when she spoke again."I must give her a kiss," she said, tenderly, and, putting out her arms, she gathered the girl to her heart. "But we must make haste," she went on, hurrying over the fag end of her embrace, as if she had not time to indulge in her feeling, much as she desired to do so. "Mr. Baines will wonder what has happened to us. He is long-
ing to see you"--and, without their knowing it, she almost chased them along the pier.Then Walter, thinking of the prawns and the chicken and the large dish of ripe green figs, made a wild struggle to get free."But really, Aunt Anne," he said, firmly, "we must go back to the lodgings. Come and lunch with us now, and let us go and see Mr. Baines another time. I dare say we shall be at Brighton again soon. We will make a point of coming, now that we know you are here, won't we, Floggie?"--and he appealed feebly to his wife."Yes, indeed we will," Florence said."Dear children," Aunt Anne laughed, "I shall not let you escape, now that I have found you." There was an unexpected brightness in her manner, but there was no intention of letting them go."Besides, there may be important letters at the lodgings, and I ought to do a bit of work," Walter said; but there was evident invention in his voice, and she did not slacken her pace. Still, as if she wanted him to know that she saw through his excuses, she looked at him reproachfully, and with a determination that did not falter."You know it would be impossible for me to return without you; he would never forgive me. Besides, dear children, you don't know what a pleasure it is to see you. I could not let you go," she went on in her soft voice. "My heart gave a bound as I recognized Walter's voice," she added, turning to Florence; "he is so like what his dear father used to be. I knew him directly."They were already by the turnstile. They felt helpless. The old lady with the thin shoulders and the black shawl loosely floating behind seemed to be their master: they were like children doing as they were told."Here is the fly. Get in, my darlings," she said, triumphantly, and Florence meekly took her place. "Get in, dear Walter," she repeated, with decision. "I will follow; get in," and he too obeyed. Another moment and they were going towards Rottingdean.The old lady looked relieved and pleased when they were on their way."It is a lovely drive," she said, "and it will do you far more good than sitting on the pier. I am so glad to have you with me, dear children!" She seemed to delight in calling them children; and it was odd, but each time that she said the word it seemed to give her a stronger hold on them. She turned to Florence."Are your father and mother quite well, my dear?" she asked.Walter put his hand on his wife's."She only has a mother," he said, gently.Aunt Anne looked quite penitent. She winked with her left eye, and was silent for a moment or two, almost as if she meditated shedding a tear for the defunct father of the niece by marriage whom she had never seen in her life before to-day. Suddenly she turned the subject so grotesquely that they nearly laughed."Are you fond of chocolates, my darling?""Yes--" she hesitated a minute, and then said, softly, "Yes, Aunt Anne, very"--she had not had occasion to give the old lady any name in the few words she had spoken previously."Dear child, I knew you would be," Aunt Anne said, and from under her shawl she produced a box covered with white satin paper, and having on its lid a very bright picture of a very smart lady. "I bought that box of chocolates for you as I came along. I thought Florence
would be like the picture on the lid," she added, turning to her nephew; "and she is, don't you think so, Walter, dear?""Yes, Aunt Anne, she is," he answered, and he looked fondly at his wife and drew up his lips a little bit in a manner that Florence knew meant, in the language only she and he in all the wide world understood, that in his thoughts he kissed her.Aunt Anne was a dear old lady, Florence thought, and of course she liked, and always would like, any relation of Walter's; still, she did so wish that on this particular day, their last by the sea together, Aunt Anne had kept her distance. Walter was so pale when they left town, but since Friday, with nothing to do but to get brown in the sun, he had been looking better and handsomer every day, and this last one they had longed to enjoy in their own lazy way; and now all their little plans were spoiled. To-morrow he would be at his office; it was really too bad, though it was ungrateful to think it, perhaps, with the remembrance of Aunt Anne's embrace fresh upon her, and the box of chocolates on her lap. Still, after all, she felt justified, for she knew that Walter was raging inwardly, and that if they were alone he would use some short but very effective words to describe his own feeling in respect to the turning up of Aunt Anne. Only he was so good, so gentle and considerate, that, no matter what his thoughts might be, she knew he would not let Aunt Anne feel how much her kindness bothered him.Meanwhile they jogged along in the open fly towards Rottingdean. A long, even road, with a view on the right of the open sea, on the left alternate high hedges and wide meadows. The grass on the cliffs was green; among the grass were little foot-paths made by wandering feet that
had diverged from the main road. Florence followed the little tracks with her eyes; she thought of foot-paths like them far away, not by the sea, but among the hanging woods of Surrey. She and Walter had sauntered along them less than a year ago. She thought of home: of the dear mother busy with her household duties, making time in between them to write to the boys in India; of the dear, noisy boys who suddenly grew to be young men and vanished into the whirl of life; of the dirty old pony carriage in which she had loved to drive her sweetheart; and when she got to this point her thoughts came to a full stop, to think more particularly of the pony. His name was Moses, and he had liked being kissed and eating sugar. She remembered, with a pang of self-reproach, that in the last months before her marriage she used to forget to kiss Moses, though she often stood absently stroking his patient nose. She had sometimes even forgotten his morning lump of sugar in the excitement of reading the letter that the early post never failed to bring."Are you fond of scenery, dear?" Aunt Anne asked.With a start Florence looked round at the old lady, at Walter, at the shabby lining of the fly."Yes, very," she answered."I knew it by the expression of your face when you looked at the sea. Mr. Baines says it is a lovely view."Why should Mr. Baines be quoted, Florence wondered.She looked again--an open sea, a misty horizon, a blue sky, and the sun shining. A fine sea-view, certainly, and a splendid day, but scenery was hardly the term to apply to the distance beside them."Is Mr. Baines very fond of the sea?" she asked. She saw that Aunt Anne was waiting for her to speak, and she said the first words that presented themselves."Yes, my love, he delights in scenery. You must call him Uncle Robert, Florence. He would be deeply wounded to hear you say Mr. Baines. Neither he nor I could think of Walter's wife as anything but our niece. You will remember, won't you, my love?" Aunt Anne spoke in the gentle but authoritative voice which was, as they had already found, difficult to resist."Yes, Aunt Anne, of course I will if you wish it; it was only because, as yet, I do not know him.""But you soon will know him, my love," the old lady answered, confidently; "and when you do, you will feel that neither he nor I could think of Walter's wife except to love her. Dear child, how fond he will be of you!" And she put her hand affectionately on Florence's while she turned to Walter, and asked, suddenly,"Walter dear, have you got a white silk handkerchief for your neck?"He looked at her for a moment, almost puzzled, wondering whether she wanted to borrow one, before he answered, "No, Aunt Anne, I fear I have not."She dived down into her pocket and pulled out a little soft packet. "I thought you wouldn't have one," she said, joyfully, "so I bought this for you just now"--and she tucked the little parcel into his hand. It took him by surprise; he did not know what to say. He felt like the school-boy she seemed to take him for, and a school-boy's awkwardness overtook him; he smiled, nodded mysteriously, and put the handkerchief into his pocket. His manner delighted Mrs. Baines."He is just the same," she said to Florence. " I remember him so well when he was only ten years old. He had the most lovely eyes I ever saw. Do you remember my
going to see your father--Ah! we have reached the hill, that's why he's going so slowly," she exclaimed, excitedly. "We shall be there in five minutes. Now we are close to the village. Drive through the street, coachman," she called out, "past the church, and a little way on you will see a house standing back from the road, with a long garden in front and a white gate. Florence dear," she asked, still keeping her eyes fixed on the driver, "do you like preserve?""Like--do you mean jam?" Florence asked, bewildered by another sudden question."Yes, my love, preserve," Aunt Anne answered, pointedly, as if she resented the use of the shorter word."I like it very much," her newly-found niece said, humbly."We have quantities of fruit in our garden, and have been preserving it all the week. It is not very firm yet, but you must have some to take back with you.""I am afraid we shall hardly be able to carry it--" Florence began, timidly, feeling convinced that if she were made to carry jam to London it would be fatal to the rest of her luggage."I will pack it for you myself," Aunt Anne said, firmly. She was watching the driver too intently to say more. She did not speak again till they had driven down the one street of Rottingdean, past the newly-built cottages and the church, and appeared to be getting into a main road again. Then suddenly she rose triumphantly from her seat. "There it is, coachman, that little cottage to the left. Dear Walter--how pleased your uncle will be. Here it is, dears," and all her kindly face lighted up with satisfaction as they stopped before a small whitewashed cottage with a long garden in front and a bed of lupins at the
side. Florence noticed that the garden, stretching far behind, was full of fruit.The old lady got out of the fly slowly; she handed out her niece and nephew. The latter was going to pay for the fly, but she pushed away his hand, then stood for a moment feeling absently in her pocket. After a moment she looked up and said, in an abstracted voice, "Walter, dear, you must settle with the flyman when you go back to Brighton; he is paid by the hour, and will wait for you, my darlings"--and she turned towards the gate. "Come, I must present you to your uncle. Robert," she called, "are you there?" She walked along the pathway, with a quick, determined step, a little in advance of her visitors; when she reached the house she stood still, as if hesitating to enter. Florence and Walter, coming up to her, saw that the front door opened into a room simply, almost poorly, furnished, with many photographs dotted about the walls, and a curious arrangement of quartz and ferns in one corner. While Mrs. Baines stood irresolute, there came round the house from the right a little shabby-looking maid-servant. Her dress was dirty, and she wore a large cap on her untidy head."Emma," said Aunt Anne, in the condescending voice of one who struggled, but unsuccessfully, to forget her own superior condition in life, "where is your master?""I don't know, mum, but I think he's tying up the beans.""Have you prepared luncheon?"The girl looked up in surprise she evidently did not dare express, and answered in the negative."Then go and do so immediately.""But please, mum, what am I to put on the table?" asked the girl, bewildered."Put!" exclaimed the old lady. "Why, the cold pie, and the preserved cranberries, of course, and the honey, and the buns."Florence thought that it sounded like the oddest meal in the world."I think we had better return, I do indeed, Aunt Anne, if you will kindly let us," urged Walter, thinking regretfully of the chicken.Aunt Anne waved her hand."Walter," she answered, grandly, "you shall not go until you have partaken of our hospitality. I wish it were a thousand times better than it is," she added, with a pathetic note in her voice that found their hearts directly.Walter put his hand on her shoulder, like the simple, affectionate fellow that he was, and Florence hastened to say, heartily,"It sounds delightful, dear Aunt Anne; it is only that we--" and then there came slouching round the left side of the house a tall, ungainly-looking man of about sixty, a man with a brown beard and brown trousers, carrying in his hand a newspaper. He looked at Walter and at Florence in almost stupid surprise, and turned from them with a grunt."Anne," he said, crossly, "where have you been? I have wasted all my morning looking for you. You knew those scarlet runners wanted tying up, and the sunflowers trimming. Who are these?" he asked, nodding at his visitors as coolly as if they had been out of hearing; "and what is that fly doing at the gate?""Why, I have been to Brighton, of course," Aunt Anne answered, bravely, lifting her head and looking him in the face; but there was a quaver of something like fear in her voice. "I told you I was going: I went by the omnibus.""What did you go to Brighton for?--you were there only last week." He lowered his voice and asked again, "Who are these?""Robert, I told you yesterday that Walter Hibbert's name was in the visitors' list in the paper, and that I was longing to see him and his wife," she answered, sharply, but still with dignity--it was doubtful which of the two was master--"so of course I went off this morning to fetch them. I knew how glad you would be to see them."The maid inside, laying the cloth in the whitewashed sitting-room, stopped clattering the forks and spoons to hear what was going on, and to look through the open window. Aunt Anne noticed it in a moment, and, turning to her, said, sternly,"Emma, proceed with your work. I told you," she went on, again speaking to her husband, "that these dear children were at Brighton. I have brought them back, Robert, to introduce them to you. They have been looking forward to it."He gave another grunt, and smiled an awkward smile that seemed forced from him, and shook his awkward shoulders."Oh, that's it," he said. "Well, you had better come in and have something to eat"--and he led the way into the cottage.Aunt Anne entirely recovered herself the moment she was under her own roof. "He is so forgetful," she said, softly, "but he has really been longing to see you"--and then she turned to him. "I told them how glad you would be to see them, Robert," she said, appealingly, as if she felt quite certain that he would remember his gladness in a moment or two, and wondered if it was yet flowing into his heart. Then she turned to Mrs. Hibbert."Dear Florence, you must ask him to show you his botanical specimens; he has a wonderful collection," she said."We will," Walter answered, good-humoredly."And now you must excuse me for a few minutes, dears. I know how much your uncle will enjoy a talk with you"--and, to the dismay of the Hibberts, Aunt Anne vanished, leaving them alone with the brown man.Mr. Baines sat slowly down on the arm-chair, the only really comfortable one in the room, and stretched out his left leg in a manner that showed it was stiff. Then he looked at his visitors almost grimly, but with an expression of odd amusement on his face, as if he knew perfectly how awkward they felt."Sit down, Mrs. Hibbert," he said, nodding towards an ordinary chair, and including Walter in the nod. "I dare say you'll be glad of your food before you look at specimens. I shall"--and he gave a lumbering laugh. "I have done a hard morning's work.""I am sure you must be very tired," Florence said, gently, wishing Aunt Anne would return.He seemed to know her thoughts, and answered them in an explanatory manner: "Anne won't be long. She always dresses before we have dinner. Great nonsense, living as we do; but it's no use my speaking. Do you make a long stay in Brighton, Mr. Hibbert?""No, we go back to town to-night.""A good thing for you. Brighton is a horrible place, to my mind, and the sooner one leaves it the better. That pier, with its band and set of idle people, with nothing else to do but to walk up and down--well, it's my opinion that railways have done a vast deal of mischief and mighty little good to make up for it. The same thing can be said of newspapers. What good do they do?"Walter felt that this sudden turn upon the press was a little hard on him, but he looked up over his moustache
with laughter in his eyes, and wondered what would come next. Florence was almost angry. Aunt Anne's husband was very rude, she thought, and she determined to come to the rescue."But you were reading a paper," she said, and tried to see what one it was that Mr. Baines had thrown down beside his chair."Oh, yes; I like to try and find out what mischief they are going to do next. If I had my way they should only be published monthly, if at all. All they do is to try and set people by the ears.""But they tell us the news," she said, valiantly."Well, and what better are we for that? I don't want to know that a man was hanged last week, and a prince will be married to-morrow. I only waste my time reading about them, when I might be usefully employed minding my own business.""Walter writes for a paper," she said, distantly, determined to find out if Mr. Baines was being rude on purpose. A little dull curiosity came into his eyes, as he looked up and asked,"Walter--who's Walter?""I am," laughed the owner of the name; but she needn't have betrayed me." Mr. Baines was in no way disconcerted."Oh! you write for a paper, do you ? Well, I am sorry for you; you might do something much better. Oh, here's Anne; now we had better go and eat."  With the aid of a stick, he shuffled out of the chair, refusing Walter's offered help. "I didn't know you wrote for a paper, or I would have held my tongue," he said, as a sort of apology. "No, thank you, I am all right once I am on my feet."Florence and Walter were astonished when they looked at Aunt Anne. They hardly knew her again. The shabby black shawl had vanished, the dusty bonnet was replaced by a soft white cap; there was lace at her throat fastened by a little crinkly gold brooch, having a place for hair in the middle; her satin dress trailed an inch or two on the ground behind, and she had put a red carnation in her bosom almost coquettishly."Now, dears," she said, with a smile of welcome that was fascinating from its absolute genuineness, "I shall be truly hurt if you fail to do justice to our simple repast"--and she took her place with an air of old-fashioned stateliness, as if she were heading a banquet table. "Now, my dears; Robert, you must put Florence on your right hand."The Hibberts took their places merrily, their spirits reviving now that they were no longer alone with their host. Aunt Anne, too, looked so picturesque sitting there in the little summer-like room, with the garden beyond, that they could not help being glad that they had come. They felt that they were living a distinct day in their lives, and not one that afterwards in looking back they would find difficult to sort out from a hundred others like it.Even Mr. Baines grew less grumpy, and offered presently to show them the garden."And the plum-trees and the pear-trees," said Aunt Anne; "and the view from the summer-house in the corner.""Oh, yes," her husband said, "we'll show them all"--and he helped to do the honors of the table with what he evidently intended to be genial courtesy."It does my heart good to see you, dears," Aunt Anne said, as she insisted on helping them to an enormous quantity of stewed cranberries."And it does us good to be here," they answered, forgetting all their vexation at losing a day by the sea--forgetting even the poor chicken that was being roasted in vain, and the waiting fly to be paid for at so much an hour."Walter, dear," Mrs. Hibbert said, as they drove back to Brighton, carefully balancing on their knees four large pots of jam, while they also kept an eye on an enormous nosegay badly tied up, that wobbled about on the back seat, "Mr. Baines didn't seem to know you when we arrived.""He had never set eyes on me before. Aunt Anne only set eyes on him five years ago. He was rather a grumpy beggar. I wonder who the deuce he was. We none of us ever knew.""He did not think much of your profession," she laughed."No, he didn't. I wonder if he ever did anything for a living himself." Then, as if he repented saying anything that sounded unkind of a man whose salt he had just eaten, he added, "But you can never tell what people are from their talk the first time you see them. He is not unlike a man I knew some years ago, who was a great inventive genius. He used to shuffle about in shoes too big for him, just as this beggar did.""I felt quite frightened when he first came round the corner.""You see it was rough upon him having his morning spoiled. A man who lives in the country like that generally gets wrapped up in his surroundings. I suppose I must have known that Aunt Anne was at Rottingdean," he went on; "but, if so, I had forgotten it. She quarrelled with my father and every one else, because she was always quite unable to keep any money. There was a great de-
liberation in the family a few years ago, when it was announced that Aunt Anne was destitute and no one wanted to keep her.""But had she no money of her own?""She had a little, but she lived on the capital till it was gone, and there was an end of that. Then suddenly she married Mr. Baines. I don't know who he was, but she met him at a railway-station. He had a bad headache, I believe; and she thought he was ill, and went up to him and offered him some smelling-salts.""Why, it was quite romantic," Florence exclaimed.Walter had a curious way of looking up when he was amused, and he looked up in that curious way now, and said, "Oh, quite.""Do go on," she said."I don't know any more, except that somehow they got married, and she turned up to-day as you saw; and I wish she hadn't given us any jam, confound it! I say, darling, let's throw it over that hedge.""Oh, I wouldn't for the world. It would be so unkind. She was a
dear old lady, Walter, and I am glad we went to see her. She asked for
our address in London, and said she would write to us."But Aunt Anne did not write for a long time, and then it was only to condole with Walter on the death of his father. The first year after their visit to Rottingdean she sent a large Christmas-card inscribed to "My dear Walter and Florence, from Aunt Anne"--but the second year even this was omitted. It was not until Mr. and Mrs. Hibbert had been married nearly seven years that Aunt Anne again appeared before them.CHAPTER IIMANY things had happened to Mr. and Mrs. Hibbert in those seven years. Most important of all--to themselves, at least--was the birth of their two children--lovely children Mrs. Hibbert declared them to be, and in his heart her husband agreed with her. But the time came when Walter found to his dismay that even lovely children would sometimes cry, and that as they grew older they wanted room to run about with that delightful patter-pattering sound that is usually more musical to a mother's ear than to a father's, especially when he has to produce intelligible copy. So the Hibberts moved away from the little flat in which they had begun their married life, to an ugly little upright house sufficiently near Portland Road to enable Walter to get quickly to the office. There a nursery could be made at the top of the house, where the children were not only out of sight, but out of hearing.Walter did a great deal of work and was fairly well paid, but that did not mean a large income for a young couple with two children and three servants, trying to keep up an appearance before the world. He wrote for magazines and literary journals, occasionally he did a long pot-boiler for one of those reviews he called refuges for destitute intellects, and altogether was thrown much among men better off than himself, so that he did not like to look poor. Besides, he preferred to live with a certain amount of comfort, even though it meant a certain
amount of anxiety, to looking poverty-stricken or shabby for the sake of knowing precisely where he would stand at the end of the quarter, or being able at any moment to lay his hand on a ten-pound note."You not only feel awkward yourself if you look poor, but cause other people to feel so," he said; "and that is making yourself a nuisance; and you have no business to do that if you can avoid it."So, though the Hibberts had only a small house, it was pretty and well arranged. Their simple meals were daintily served, and everything about them had an air that implies content dashed with luxury. In fact they lived as people can live now, on a moderate income, and especially in London, in comfort and refinement.Still, it was a difficult task to pull through, and Walter felt that he ought to be making more money. He knew, too, though he did not tell his wife so, that the constant work and anxiety were telling on him; he wanted another and a far longer bracing-up than the one he had had seven years ago at Brighton. "A sea voyage would be the thing," he thought, "only I don't see how it could be managed, even if I could get away."The last year had been a fortunate one in some ways: an aunt of Mrs. Hibbert's had died; leaving them a hundred pounds and a furnished cottage near Witley in Surrey. It was a dear little cottage they both protested--red brick, of course, as all well-bred cottages are nowadays--standing in an acre and a half of its own fir-wood, and having round it a garden with tan paths and those prim flowers that grow best in the vicinity of fir. It would be delightful to stay there in the summer holidays, they agreed, or to run down from Saturday to Monday, or by and by to send the children there for a spell with
the governess when their parents were not able to get away from town. Walter had tried sending Florence and the children and going down every week himself, but he found "it didn't work." She was always longing to be with him, and he with her. It was only a broad sea and a few thousand miles that would make separation possible, and he did not think he could ever endure that very long, for he was absurdly fond of his dear little wife.All this he thought over as he walled along the Strand one morning to his office. He was going to see his chief, who had sent for him on a matter of business. His chief was Mr. Fisher, an excellent editor, though he was perhaps not quite enough of a partisan to have a strong following. The Centre was a model of fairness and the mainstay of that great section of the reading public that likes its news trustworthy and copious, but has no pronounced party leanings. Still, if it was a paper without political influence, it was one of great political use, for it invariably stated a question from all points of view with equal fairness, though it leaned, if at all, from sheer editorial generosity, towards making the best of it for the weakest side. Thus a minority looked to it almost as to an advocate, and the majority knew that any strength that was against them would be set forth in The Centre, and that if none was pleaded there, the right and the triumph were together. Mr. Fisher liked Walter Hibbert; and though, by tacit agreement, their relations inside the office were purely formal, outside they were more intimate.  Occasionally they took the form of a quiet dinner, or a few hours in the little house near Portland Road, where Florence contributed a good deal to her husband's popularity.As he walked along the Strand that morning, Walter
meditated on many ways of improving his condition, and at the same time of not overworking himself. He found that it told on him considerably to be down late at the office three nights a week, doing his article, and then, with the excitement of work still upon him, to go home tired and hungry in the small hours of the morning. It was bad for Florence too, for she generally sat up for him, declaring that to taste his supper and to have a little chat with him did her good and made her heart light. Sometimes he thought he would take up a different line altogether (he knew his editor would aid and abet him in anything for his good) and try living in the country, running up to town every day if necessary. But this would never do, it would only make him restive. His position was not yet strong enough to admit of taking things so easily. It was important to him to live among men of knowledge and influence, to be in the whirl and twirl of things, and London was essentially the bull's-eye, not only of wealth and commerce, but of most other things with which men of all degrees concern themselves.And when he got to this point he came to the conclusion that he was thinking too much about himself. After all, he only wanted a month's rest or a couple of month's change of air; a friendly talk, such as he might possibly get in the next quarter of an hour, would probably bring about either and in a far better form than he himself could devise it. Mr. Fisher was a man of infinite resource, not merely in regard to his paper, but for himself and his friends too, when they consulted him about their personal affairs. It was one of his characteristics that he liked being consulted. Walter felt that what he wanted was to get away somewhere alone with Florence, where the climate had no cause to be ashamed of itself, and where there would be warm sunshine to bask in. It was no good
going alone, and no matter how pleasant a friend went with him, it was his experience that a time always came when he wanted to go by one route and the friend by another. "Now, your wife," he thought, "not only particularly longs to go by your route, but thinks you are a genius for finding it out."He stopped for a moment to look at a book-shop; there was a box of second-hand books outside; he hesitated, but remembered that he had no time to stay. As he turned away some one touched him on the arm, and a voice said, doubtfully,"Will you speak to me, Walter?" He looked up and instantly held out his hand, with a smile."Why, it's Wimple," he said. "How are you, old fellow? Of course I'll speak to you. How are you?"The man who had stopped him was about eight-and-twenty; he was tall and thin; his legs were too long and very rickety. To look at he was not prepossessing: he had a pinky complexion, pale reddish hair and small round dark eyes with light lashes and weak lids. On either side of his face there were some straggling whiskers; his mouth was hard and his whole expression very grave. His voice was low but firm in its tone, as though he wished to convey that even in small matters it would be useless to contradict him. He wore rather shabby dark clothes, his thin overcoat was unbuttoned and showed that the undercoat was faced with watered silk that had worn a little shiny; attached to his waistcoat was a watch-guard made of brown hair ornamented here and there with bright gold clasps. He did not look strong or very flourishing. He was fairly gentleman-like, but only fairly so, and he did not look very agreeable. The apparent weakness of his legs seemed to prevent him from walking
uprightly; he looked down a good deal at the toes of his boots, which were well polished. The oddest thing about him was that with all his unprepossessing appearance he had a certain air of sentiment; occasionally a sentimental tone stole into his voice, but he carefully repressed it. Walter remembered, the moment he looked at him, that the brown hair watch-guard had been the gift of a pretty girl, the daughter of a tailor to whom he had made love, as if in compensation for not paying her father's bill. He wondered how it had ended, whether the girl had broken her heart for him or found him out. But the next moment he hated himself for his ungenerous thoughts, and, forcing them back, spoke in as friendly a voice as he could manage. "It's ages since we came across each other," he said, "and I should not have seen you just now if you had not seen me.""I wasn't sure whether you would speak to me," Mr. Wimple said, solemnly, as they turned on together--and then almost hurriedly, as if to avoid thinking about unpleasant things, he asked, "How is your wife?""All right, thank you. But how are you, and how are you getting on?""I am not at all well, Walter"--Mr. Wimple coughed, as if to show that he was delicate--"and my uncle has behaved shamefully to me.""Why, what has he done?" Walter asked, wishing that he felt more cordial, for he had known Alfred Wimple longer than he had known any one. Old acquaintance was not to be lightly put aside, but constituted a claim in Walter's eyes as strong as did relationship, though it was only when the claim was made on him, and never when he might have pressed it for his own advantage, that he remembered this."Done! Why, he has turned me out of his office, just because he wanted to make room for the son of a rich client--for nothing else in the world.""That was rough," Walter answered, thinking, almost against his will, that Wimple had never been very accurate, and that this account was possibly not a fair one."What excuse did he make?" he asked."He said my health was bad, that I was not strong enough to do the work, that I had better take a few months' holiday. It is quite true about my health. I am very delicate, Walter."  He turned, and looked at his friend with round, dark eyes that seemed to have no pupils to them, as though he wanted to see the effect of his statement. "I must take a few months' rest.""Then perhaps he was right, after all. But can you manage the few months' rest?" Walter asked, hesitating, for he knew the question was expected from him. In old days he had had so much to do with Wimple's affairs that he did not like to ignore them altogether."He makes me an allowance, of course, but it's not sufficient," Alfred Wimple answered, reluctantly.  "I wanted him to keep my post open for a few months, but he refused, though he's the only relation I have.""Well, but he has been pretty good," Walter said, in a pacific voice, "and perhaps he thinks you really want rest. It's not bad of him to make you an allowance. It's more than any one would do for me if I had to give up work for a bit.""He only does it because he can't well refuse, and it's a beggarly sum, after all."  To which Walter answered nothing. He had always felt angry with himself for not liking Alfred better--they were such very old friends. They had been school-fellows long ago, and afterwards,
when Walter was at Cambridge and Alfred was preparing for the study of law in London (he was by a few years the younger of the two), there had been occasions when they met and spent many pleasant hours together. To do Walter justice, it had always been Alfred who had sought him and not he who had sought Alfred, for, in spite of the latter's much professed affection, Walter never wholly trusted him; he hated himself for it, but the fact remained. "The worst of Alfred is, that he lies," he had said to himself long ago. He remembered his own remark to-day with a certain amount of reproach, but he knew that he had not been unjust; still, after all, he thought it was not so very great a crime, so many people lied nowadays, often almost without being aware of it. He was inclined to think that he had been rather hard on Alfred, who had been very constant to him. Besides, Wimple had been unlucky: he had been left a penniless lad to the care of an uncle, a rich city solicitor, who had not appreciated the charge; he had never had a soul who cared for him, and must have been very miserable and lonely at times. If he had had a mother or a sister, or any one at all to look after him, he might have been different. Then, too, Walter remembered that once when he was very ill in the vacation it was Alfred who had turned up and nursed him, with almost a woman's anxiety. A kindness like that made a link too strong for a few disagreeables to break. He could not help thinking that he was a brute not to like his old friend better."I am sorry things are so bad with you, old man; you must come and dine and talk them over."Mr. Wimple looked him earnestly in the face."I don't like to come," he said, in a half-ashamed, half-pathetic  voice; "I behaved so badly to you about that thirty pounds, but luck was against me.""Never mind, yon shall make it all right when luck is with you," Walter answered, cheerfully, determined to forget all unpleasant by-gones. "Why not come to-night?--we shall be alone."Mr. Wimple shook his head."No, not to-night," he said. "I am not well, and I am going down to the country till Wednesday; it will do me good."  A little smile hovered round his mouth as he added, "Some nice people in Hampshire have asked me to stay with them.""In Hampshire? Whereabouts in Hampshire?"There was a certain hesitation in Mr. Wimple's manner as he answered,"You don't know them, and I don't suppose you ever heard of the place, Walter; it is between Petersfield and Liphook.""Liphook? why, of course I know it--it is on the Portsmouth line; we have a cottage, left us by my wife's aunt only last year, which is in the same direction, only nearer town. How long are you going to stay there?""Till Wednesday. I will come and dine with you on Thursday, if you will have me.""All right, old man--7:30. Perhaps you had better give me your address in case I have to put you off for business reasons."Mr. Wimple hesitated a minute, and then gave his London address, adding that he should be back on Wednesday night or Thursday morning at latest. They were standing now outside the newspaper office."Do you think there might be anything I could do here?" he asked, nodding at the poster outside the door. "I might review legal books or something of that sort.""I expect Fisher has a dozen men ready for anything at a moment's notice," Walter answered; "but I'll put in
a word for you if I get the chance"--and with a certain feeling of relief he shook his friend's hand and rushed upstairs. The atmosphere seemed a little clearer when he was alone. "I'll do what I can for him," he thought, "but I can't stand much of his company. There is a want of fresh air about him that bothers me so. Perhaps he could do a legal book occasionally--he used to write rather well. I'll try what can be done."But his talk with Mr. Fisher was so important to himself and so interesting in many ways that he forgot all about Alfred until he was going out of the door; and then it was too late to speak about him. Suddenly a happy thought struck him--Mr. Fisher was to dine with Walter next week; he would ask him for Thursday. Then if he liked Alfred it might all go right. He remembered, too, that Alfred always dressed carefully and looked his best in the evening and laid himself out to be agreeable."By the way, Fisher, I wonder if you would come on Thursday instead of on Wednesday. I expect an old friend and should like you to meet him; he is clever and rather off luck just now; of course you'll get your chat with my wife all right--in fact better if there are one or two people to engross me.""Very well, Thursday if you like; it will do equally well for me; I am free both evenings as far as I know.""Agreed then"--and Walter went down the office stairs pleased at his own success."That horrid Mr. Wimple will spoil our dinner; I never liked him," Florence exclaimed when she heard of the arrangement."I know you didn't, and I don't like him either, which is mean of me, for he's a very old friend.""But if we neither of us like him, why should we inflict him on our lives?""We won't; we'll cut him as soon as he has five hundred a year; but it wouldn't be fair to do so just now, when he's down on his luck; he and I have been friends too long for that.""But not very great friends?""Perhaps not--but we won't throw him over in bad weather; try and be a little nice to him to please me, there's a dear Floggie," which instantly carried the day. "You had better ask Ethel Dunlop; Fisher is fond of music, and she will amuse him when he is tired of flirting with you," Walter suggested."He'll never tire of that," she laughed, "but I'll invite her if you like. She can play while you talk to Mr. Wimple, and your editor discusses European politics with me.""He'll probably discuss politics outside Europe, if he discusses any," her husband answered; "things look very queer in the East.""They always do," she said, wisely; "but I believe it's all nonsense, and only our idea because we live so far off.""You had better tell Fisher to send me out to see.""Us, you mean.""No, me. They wouldn't stand you, dear"--and he looked at her anxiously. "I shouldn't be much surprised if he asked me to go for a bit--indeed, I think he has an idea of it.""Oh, Walter, it would be horrible.""Not if it did me good and gave me a thorough change; sometimes I think I need one."She looked at him for a moment."No, not then," she answered.CHAPTER IIIFLORENCE sat 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 0., 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 woe-begone 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," 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 was alive 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 grayer; 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 easy, if no one else could be found on whom she had a claim. She did not think she would care for 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--the world is 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, "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, Aunt Anne, 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 Florence'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," Florence 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 loath, 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-by, my dears, good-by"--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 while 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 honor to know anybody belonging to me," Mrs. Baines answered, with an involuntary wink."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 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 gray horse.""Shall we send it away, and get another?""No, my dear, no; I think it foolish to encourage a prejudice; nothing would induce me now not to go by that cab."She gathered her shawl close round her shoulders and went slowly down the steps; when she was safely in the hansom and the door closed in front of her, she bowed with dignity to Florence, as if from the private box of a theatre.That same afternoon there arrived a pot of maidenhair fern, with a card attached to it on which was written, Mrs. Walter Hibbert, from Aunt Anne, and two smaller pots of bright flowers, For the dear children."How very kind of her!" exclaimed Florence; "but she ought not to spend her money on us--the money she earns too. Oh, she is much too generous."CHAPTER IV"I wish we could do something for Aunt Anne," Mrs. Hibbert said to her husband that evening. "It was very kind of her to send us those flowers.""Let's ask her to dine.""Of course we will--she is longing to see you; still, asking her to dine will not be doing anything for her.""But it will please her very much--she likes being treated with respect," Walter laughed. "Let's send her a formal invitation. You see these people she is with evidently like her, and may give her a hundred or two a year, quite as much as she wants, so that all we can do is to show her some attention. Therefore, I repeat, let's ask her to dine.""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 honor 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 that 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," Walter answered. " 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, and de-
termined 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 gown, 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 little 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 little space, Aunt Anne was almost entirely 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--liked luxuries, and things well managed, and she could never 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 up-stairs 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 thoughtfulest 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 was afraid to go back because it was getting so late."He dressed and went down-stairs. 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 up-stairs, 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 woe-begone 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 down-stairs 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, Aunt Anne, and so handsome.""My darling, I am thankful to hear you say that, for I bought it to do you honor. 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 honor. 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 which my heart would resent."She turned and led the way down-stairs. 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 half-way 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."All right, dear," he said, cheerily, giving her a kiss. "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."That's right," his host said, cheerily; "and now, Alfred, I must introduce you to my aunt, Mrs. Baines. Alfred Wimple is an old school-fellow 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," Aunt Anne said, with a smile. "For it would be impossible that any one loving my dear Walter should not possess my friendship."The other guests entered; Ethel Dunlop, looking a little shy, but smiling as if aware that, being a girl, she had
more business at dances than at dinner-parties, but was determined, nevertheless, to be a credit to her hostess. And then Mr. Fisher. Alfred Wimple stood on one side till Walter said,"Fisher, this is a very old friend of mine. I want to introduce him to you."  There was something irritating in the over-deferential manner in which Mr. Wimple said, while he bowed low,"Walter is always conferring benefits on me--but this is a great honor.""I am glad you think so," the editor answered, curtly, and turned to Ethel Dunlop. She was fidgeting with her glove."Buttons always come off," she said, without looking up at him."But you at least can sew them on. My sex is not so accomplished." She seemed to be thinking of something else, and did not answer; a puzzled expression came over his face as if he thought a girl too difficult a problem to be solved. 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 something hard and firm about the mouth and square jaw belied them, and gave his face a look of obstinate strength. He was not a young man, and somehow it was difficult to believe that he had ever been younger or would grow older; he seemed to have been born for middle age, and the direction of people and affairs.Mrs. Baines talked to Mr. Wimple till dinner was announced. Then Walter went up to his proud relation."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 into tête-a-tête talk. She was so bright and full of life and had so much to say that she carried all before her. Ethel Dunlop, young and pretty, felt piqued; usually Mr. Fisher was attentive to her, to-night he talked entirely to Mrs. Baines. That horrid Mr. Wimple, as she called him in her thoughts, had been quite attentive when she met him before, but now he, too, kept his eyes fixed on the old lady opposite; but for her host she would have felt neglected. And it was odd how well Aunt Anne managed to flirt with everybody."Mrs. Baines has given me some useful hints about birds," Mr. Fisher said to Florence, with a suspicion of amusement in his voice; "if I had been as wise before 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 my 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.""All, 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 ago. I am afraid I should shock you--you are all so young--if I said how many years," 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, Sir William, 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 that 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 couple of generations 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 honor 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 only relations 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 up-stairs. 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 al-
most 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 over 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, then, with a wink, 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 looked across at Walter, who went back to 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 surroundings 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 checks, 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. 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 learned beforehand. "I wish you would teach me to live out of the abundance of youth that will always be yours."She listened to him attentively; she turned and looked away into the distance, as if puzzled and fascinated by it, almost as if she were afraid of the blackness to which it reached. Then she gave a little nod, as if she had remembered that it was only the trees of 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 worthy 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 sad but almost sweet 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. It was a curious question."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 up-stairs again. "I don't believe he knows a soul in Queen's Gate."CHAPTER VWALTER was going to India for the winter. It had all been arranged while Aunt Anne sat out on the balcony with Mr. Wimple. Mr. Fisher had explained to Florence that the paper wanted a new correspondent for a time, and that it would be an excellent thing for Walter to get the change and movement of the new life. He was to go out by P. and 0., making a short stay at Gibraltar, for press purposes, as well as one at Malta. He had looked anxiously enough at his wife when they were alone again that evening; but she had put out her two hands, as if in congratulation."I am very glad," was all she said; "it will do you good and make you strong.""To live for you and the chicks, my sweet."And so they arranged the getting ready; for he was to start by the very next boat, and that sailed in ten days' time."If your mother had been in England you might have gone with me as far as Gib," Walter remarked. "I suppose you would be afraid to leave the servants in charge?""I should like to go," she answered, as she poured out the coffee--it was breakfast-time; "but I couldn't leave the children.""By Jove!" Walter exclaimed, not heeding her answer. "There's Aunt Anne in a hansom! I say, Floggie dear, let me escape. What on earth does she mean by coming
at this hour of the morning? Say I'm not down yet, and shall be at least three hours before I am; but keep the breakfast hot somehow.""Couldn't you see her?""No, no; she would want to weep over me if she heard that I was going, and I know I should laugh. Manage to get rid of her soon"--and he flew up-stairs as the street-door was opened."My dear Florence," Mrs. Baines said, as she walked in with a long footstep and a truly tragic air, "let me put my arms round you, my poor darling.""Why, Aunt Anne, what is the matter?" Florence asked, cheerfully, and with considerable astonishment."You are very brave, my love," the old lady said, scanning her niece's face; "but I know all--an hour ago I had a letter, telling me of Walter's departure. My dear, it will break your heart.""But why?""My love, it will.""Oh no," Florence said, "I am not so foolish. Life is full of ordinary events that bring out very keen feelings. I have been thinking that lately; but one must learn to take them calmly.""You do not know what you will suffer when he is gone.""No, Aunt Anne. I shall miss him, of course; but I shall hope that he is enjoying himself.""My dear Florence, I expected to find you broken-hearted.""That would be cruel to him. I am glad he is going--it will do him good; and really I have not had time to think of myself yet, I have been so busy."Mrs. Baines considered for a moment."That is the reason; I knew there was an explanation somewhere," she said, in an earnest, emotional tone. "I knew how unselfish you were from the first moment I saw you, Florence. It is like you, my darling, not to think of yourself. Try not to do so, for you will feel your loneliness bitterly enough when he is gone.""But don't tell me so," Florence said, half crying, half laughing. "How did you know about it, Aunt Anne?""Mr. Wimple told me.""Mr. Wimple!--have you seen him then?""My love, he is one of the most cultivated men I ever met. We have many tastes and sympathies in common. He wrote to ask me to meet him by the Albert Memorial.""To meet him!" exclaimed Florence."Yes," answered the old lady, solemnly. "He agrees with me that never was there in any age or country a more beautiful work than the Albert Memorial. We arranged to meet and examine it together. He wrote to me just now and mentioned that Walter was going to India. I telegraphed to Mr. Wimple instantly that I could see no one else to-day, for I knew that you would welcome my loving sympathy. I came to offer it to you, Florence." She said the last words in a disappointed and injured voice."It was very kind of you, Aunt Anne; but indeed I have only had time to be glad that he would get a rest and pleasant change of work.""I must see him before he goes; I may never do so again," Mrs. Baines said, after a pause."Oh yes, you will, dear.""I have brought him two little tokens that I thought of him as I hastened to you after hearing the news. I
thought they would be useful to him. These are glycerine lozenges, Florence; they are excellent for the throat. The sea mist or the desert sand is sure to affect it.""Thank you, it was very kind of you--you are much too generous; you make us quite uneasy."  Florence was miserable at the two evils suggested."My love, if I had thousands a year you should have them," Aunt Anne answered, and, intent on her present-making, she went on, "and here is a little case of scissors, they are of different sizes. I know how much gentlemen"--Aunt Anne always said gentlemen, never "men," as do the women of to-day--"like to find a pair suited to their requirements at the moment; I thought that they might be useful to him on the voyage."  She gave a sigh of relief, as though presenting her gifts had removed a load from her mind. "I suppose Walter is not down yet, my love?""He is up-stairs," Florence said, a little guiltily, "I am afraid he will not be down just yet."Aunt Anne gave a reflective wink, as though she perfectly understood the reason of Walter's non-appearance; but if she did she had far too much tact to betray it."If it be your wish, my dear, I will forego the pleasure of saying a last good-by to him.""Well, dear Aunt Anne, when he does come down he will have a great deal to do," Florence answered, still more guiltily, for she could not help feeling that Aunt Anne saw through the ruse."My love, I quite understand," Mrs. Baines said, solemnly; "and he will know that it was from no lack of affection that I did not wait to see him.""Poor Aunt Anne!" Florence thought when she had gone. "She would wring a tragedy from every daily trial
if she were encouraged. "Oh, you wicked coward," she said to Walter, "to run away like that!""Yes, my darling. But I am starved--and really, you know, Floggie, confound Aunt Anne!""Oh, but she is very kind," Florence said, as she displayed the presents. "I know did Mr. Wimple know that you were going to India?" she asked."I met him yesterday at the office. He went to see Fisher; it was arranged that he should the other night.""It is very extraordinary, his striking up a friendship with Aunt Anne.""Yes, very extraordinary," he laughed, and then the old lady was
forgotten.The days flew by, and the last one came. To-morrow (Thursday) Walter was to start by an early train for Southampton. All his arrangements were complete, and on that last day he had virtually nothing to do, "therefore, Floggie dear," he pleaded, "let us have a spree.""Yes," she answered, willingly enough, though her heart was heavier than his. "How shall we manage it?""Let us stroll about all day or go to Richmond, and come back and have a cosey little dinner somewhere.""Here," she pleaded; "let us dine here, in our own home, on this last evening; we'll have a very nice dinner.""Very nice indeed?""Very nice indeed, you greedy thing!""All right, darling, suppose you go and order it. Then get ready, and let's start as soon as possible; we'll amuse ourselves well, and forget that we have not a month to do it in. Live and be happy in the present day, dear Flog-
 gie," he went on, in a mock-serious tone, "for there is always a chance that to-morrow will not declare itself."So they went off, like the boy he was in spite of his more than thirty years, and the girl that she sometimes felt herself to be still in spite of the two children and the eight years of matrimony. They walked a little way. Then Walter had a brilliant idea."Let's get into a hansom," he said, "drive to Waterloo Station, and take the first train that is going in any pleasant direction; I think Waterloo is the best place for that sort of speculation. This beggar's horse looks pretty good--jump in."As they drove up to the station, a four-wheeled cab moved away, the cabman grumbling at the sum that had been given him by two people, a man and a woman, who still stood on the station steps looking after him."Why, there's Wimple," Walter exclaimed; "and who's that with him, I wonder?"Florence looked up quickly. Mr. Wimple wore a shabby gray coat, and round his neck and over his mouth there was a gray comforter, for the October morning was slightly chilly. In his hand he carried a worn brown portmanteau. Beside him stood a tall, good-looking young woman of five-and-twenty, commonly, almost vulgarly dressed. She looked after the departing cab with a scowl on her face that told it was she who had paid the scanty fare. As they stood together, they looked poor and common and singularly unprepossessing; it was impossible to help feeling that they were nearly connected. They looked like husband and wife, and of an indefinite and insignificant class. Suddenly Alfred Wimple caught Walter's eye; he nodded, gravely, without the least confusion, but he evidently said something, quickly and in a low tone, to his
 companion, for they hurried away through one of the station doors."That horrid Mr. Wimple seems to possess us lately," Florence thought.As they went from the ticket office, she saw Mr. Wimple and his friend hurrying along the platform. A minute later they had entered a Portsmouth train which was on the point of starting."If that's his Liphook friend, I don't think much of the looks of her.  Alfred always picked up with odd people," Walter thought, but he kept these reflections to himself; all he said aloud was, "I say, Floggie dear, if Wimple turns up while I'm away, don't be uncivil to him, and give him food if you can manage it. Somehow he always looks half starved, poor beggar! Fisher is going to give him some reviewing to do--perhaps that will help him a bit."There was a train going to Windsor in ten minutes; so they went by it, and strolled down by the river, and looked at the boats, and went into the town, and looked at the shops and the outside of the castle. Then they lunched at the confectioner's, an extravagant lunch which Walter ordered, and afterwards, while they were still drowsy and happy, they hired an open fly and drove to Virginia Water. They hurried back to Windsor in time to catch the 6 P.M. Train for town, by half a minute, and congratulated themselves upon finding an empty carriage."I shall always remember this dear day," Florence said, as they sat over their last little dinner at home."That's a good thing," Walter said, "and so will I, dear wife. When I come back we'll have another like it in memory of this one's success." Then he remembered Alfred Wimple: "I should like to know who that girl
was," he thought; "wonder if she's the daughter of another tailor he doesn't want to pay; and if I met him to-morrow I wonder what lie he would tell me about her--he always lied, poor beggar!" And this shows that Walter's thoughts were sometimes not as charitable as his words.The next day, very early, Walter departed for Southampton; Florence went to see him safely on board."We shall have the good little journey together," he said, dismally, for he was loath enough to leave his wife, now that the parting-time had come.But it seemed as if the train flew along the rails in its hurry to get near the sea, and the journey was over directly.  There was all the bustle of getting on board, and almost before she knew it, Florence was on her way back to London alone. As if in a dream she walked home from the station, thinking of her husband watching the sea as it widened between him and England. She was glad she had seen the ship; she could imagine him seated at the long table in the saloon, with the punkahs--useless enough at present--waving overhead, or in his cabin, looking out through the porthole at the white crests of the waves. Yes. She could see all his surroundings plainly. She gave a long sigh. She was a brave little woman, and had tried so hard not to break down before Walter, though in the last moment on board, when she had felt as if her heart would break, she had not been able altogether to help it. But now, as she walked home in the dusk without him, she felt as if she could not live through the long months of separation."But I will, I will," she said to herself, while the tears trickled down her face. "Only it is hard, for there is no one in the world like him--no one, no one, and we have never been parted before."Every moment, too, she remembered, took him farther and farther away. She told herself again and again how much good the journey would do him, how glad she was that he would get the change; but human nature is human nature still, and will not be controlled by argument. So she quickened her pace, resolving not to give way till she was safe in the darkness of her own room, hidden from the eyes of the servants, and then she would let her misery have its fling.She looked up at the house with a sigh. It would be so still without Walter. There was a flickering light in the drawing-room. Probably the servants had put a lamp there, for the days were growing short--it was nearly dark already. The children would be in bed, but they were certain not to be asleep, and she thought of the little shout of welcome they would give when they heard her footstep on the stair as she went up to kiss them.  She let herself in with Walter's latch-key--she kissed it as she took it from her pocket, and nearly cried again--and then, having entered, she stood still and wondered. There in the hall were two square boxes--boxes of the sort that were used before overland trunks came into fashion, and when American arks were unknown. They were covered with brown holland, bordered with faded red braid, and corded with thick brown cord. Stitched on to each cover was a small white card, on each of which was written, in the hand Florence knew so well, Mrs. Baines, care of Mrs. Walter Hibbert. While she was still contemplating the address, a servant, who had heard her enter, came up."Mrs. Baines has been here since eleven o'clock, ma'am," she said; "she's in the drawing-room, and has had nothing to eat all day except a cup of tea and a little toast that
nurse made her have at four o'clock. She's been waiting to see you."It was evident that there had been some catastrophe. The next moment Florence had run up-stairs and entered the drawing-room."Aunt Anne!" she exclaimed, "what has happened?"The old lady had been standing by the fireplace. Her thin white hands were bare, but she still wore her cloak and black, close-fitting bonnet, though she had thrown aside the crape veil. Her face looked worn and anxious, but a look of indignation came to her eyes as Florence entered--a last little flash of remembered insult; then she advanced with outstretched hands."Florence," she said, "I have come to you for advice and shelter; I have been insulted--and humiliated"--a quaver came into her voice; she could not go on till indignation returned to give her strength. "Florence," she began again, "I have come to you. I--I--""Aunt Anne, dear Aunt Anne," Florence said, aching with fatigue, and feeling, ruefully, that her longing for rest and quiet was not likely to be satisfied, yet thinking, oddly enough too, even while she spoke, of Walter going on farther and farther away across the darkening sea, "what is the matter?--tell me, dear!" There was a throbbing pain in her head. It was like the thud-thud of the screw on board Walter's ship.Aunt Anne raised her head and spoke, firmly,"My love, I have been insulted.""Insulted, Aunt Anne!--but how?""Yes, my love--insulted. I frequently had occasion to reprove the servants for their conduct--for the want of respect they showed me. The cook was abominable, and a reprimand had no effect upon her. To-day her imper-
tinence was past endurance. I told Mrs. North so, and that she must be dismissed. Mfrs. North refused--refused, though her servant had forgotten what was due to me, and this morning--I can't repeat her words.""Well," said Florence, "but surely you did not let a servant drive--""No, dear Florence; it was not the cook who drove me out--I should not allow a subordinate to interfere with my life--it was Mrs. North. She has behaved cruelly to me. She listened to her servants in preference to me. I told her that they showed me no respect, that they entirely forgot what was due to me, and unless she made an example, and dismissed one of them, it would be impossible for me to stay in her house, that--that, I can't repeat it all, Florence; and, my love, there were other reasons--that are impossible to repeat; but I am here--I am here, homeless, and miserable, and insulted. I flew to you. I knew you would be indignant--that your dear heart would feel for me.""But you were so happy there?""Yes, my love, I was.""And Mrs. North was so kind to you," Florence went on, regretfully; "could you not have managed--""No, my love, I must remember what is due to myself.""Oh, but, dear Aunt Anne, don't you think it would have been better to have put up--""Florence, if you cannot sympathize with me I must ask you not to discuss the matter," the old lady answered, raising her head and speaking in a tone of surprise; "there is no trouble you could have come to me with that I should not have felt about as you did."Aunt Anne had a remarkable gift for fighting her own battles, Florence thought."But don't you see, Aunt Anne, that--""I would prefer not to discuss the matter, my love," the old lady said, loftily. "You are so young and inexperienced that perhaps you cannot enter into my feelings. Either the cook or I had to leave the house. There were other reasons too, I repeat, why I deemed it unadvisable to remain. Mrs. North has lately shown a levity of manner that I could not countenance: her sister is no longer with her, and her husband is thousands of miles away, yet she is always ready for amusement. I cannot believe that she loves her husband, or she would show more regret at his absence. I have known what a happy marriage is, Florence, and you know what it is too, my love. You can, therefore, understand that I thought her conduct reprehensible.""Yes," Florence said, wearily, "I know, I know."Then she rang the bell and ordered tea to be made ready in the dining-room--a substantial tea of the sort that women love and men abhor."Now rest and forget all the worries," she said, gently. "You are tired and excited; try and forget everything till you have had some tea and are rested. The spare room is quite ready, and you shall go to bed early, as I will, for it has been a long day.""I know what you must have gone through"--and Mrs. Baines shook her head, sadly; "and that you want to be alone to think of your dear Walter. But I will only intrude on you for one night; to-morrow I will find an apartment.""You must not talk like that, for you are very welcome, Aunt Anne," Florence said, gently, though she could not help inwardly chafing at the intrusion, and longing to be alone."Tell me, love, did Walter go off comfortably?" Mrs. Baines asked, speaking with the air people sometimes speak of those who have died rather to the satisfaction of their relations."Yes, he sailed a few hours ago. I have just come back from Southampton.""I know it," Aunt Anne answered, her voice full of untold feeling. "Did he take my simple gifts with him, dear?""Yes, he took them," Florence answered, gratefully; "but come down-stairs, Aunt Anne, you must be worn out."Then in a moment Aunt Anne recovered her old manner, the manner that had some indefinable charm in it, and looked at Florence."Yes, my love," she said, "I am very much fatigued, and thankful indeed to enjoy your hospitality again. Before I retire to rest I must write some letters, if you will permit your servant to post them."Florence had to write one or two letters also. She gave three to the little housemaid to post; as she did so, one of Aunt Anne's caught her eye. It was addressed to Alfred Wimple. "Perhaps she wanted to tell him something about the Albert Memorial," she thought, wearily, and dismissed the matter from her mind.CHAPTER VITHEN it was that Florence discovered that Aunt Anne was really a charming person to have in the house, especially with children. She was so bright, so clever with them, so full of little surprises. In her pocket there always lingered some unexpected little present, and at the tip of her tongue some quaint bit of old-world knowledge that was as interesting to grown-up folk as to the children. To see her prim figure about the place seemed to Florence like having lavender among her linen. She was useful too--ready with her fingers to darn some little place in a table-cloth that every one else had overlooked, to sew a button on Monty's little shoe, or to mend a tear in Catty's pinafore. Above all, she was so complimentary, so full of admiration, and it was quite evident that she meant with her whole heart all the pretty things she said. She did, too. Walter was the son of her favorite brother, and to Florence she had really taken a fancy from the beginning."I loved you from the first moment, my love," she said. "I shall never forget the look of happiness on your face that morning at Brighton I met you and your dear Walter together. It endeared you to me. It was a happy day," she added, with a sigh."Yes, a very happy day," Florence answered, affectionately, remembering how ungrateful both she and dear Walter had been at the time. This was at breakfast one
morning, a week after Walter's departure. She was pouring out the coffee very quickly, because she longed to open her letters, though she knew it was not possible to get yet the one he had posted from Gibraltar.Aunt Anne meanwhile was undoing a little packet that had come by post, addressed to her. Catty and Monty, having finished their porridge, were intently watching. She stopped when she noticed the gravity of their faces."My love," she said, in the tone of one asking a great favor, "have I your permission to give these dear children some bread and jam?""Oh yes, of course," Florence answered, not looking up from the long letter she was reading.Aunt Anne, quick to notice, saw that it had a foreign postmark and an enclosure that looked like a check. Then she cut some bread and took off the crust before she spread a quantity of butter on the dainty slices and piled on the top of the butter as much jam as they could carry."Oh!" cried the children, with gleeful surprise."Dear Aunt Anne," exclaimed Florence, looking up when she heard it, "I never give them quite so much butter with quite so much jam. It is too rich for them, and we don't cut off the crusts.""The servants will eat them.""Indeed they will not," laughed Florence; "they don't like crusts.""You are much too good to them, love, as you are to every one. They should do as they are told, and be glad to take what they can get. I never have patience with the lower classes," she added, in the gentlest of voices.But the words gave Florence a sudden insight into the reason of Aunt Anne's collapse at Mrs. North's, a catas-
trophe to which the old lady never referred. The very mention of Mrs. North's name made her manner a little distant."And then, you know," Florence said, ever careful, and now especially anxious to make the very short allowance on which she had put herself in her husband's absence hold out, "we must not let the children learn to be dainty, must we? So they must try to eat up the crusts of their bread, and we only give them a little butter when they have jam. I never had butter and jam together at all at home"--and she stroked Catty's fat little hand while she went on reading her letter. "Grandma has written from France, my babes," she said, looking up after a few minutes; "she sends you each a kiss and five shillings to spend.""I shall buy a horse and be a soldier," Monty declared."I shall buy a present for mummy and a little one for Aunt Anne," said Catty."Bless you! my darling, for thinking of me," the old lady said, fervently, and suddenly opening a tin of Devonshire cream, she piled a mass of it on to the bread and butter and jam already before the astonished children. Aunt Anne's nature gloried in profusion."Why," said Florence, not noticing anything at table, "here is a letter from Madame Celestine--her name is on the seal, at least. I don't owe her anything. Oh no, it isn't for me. Mrs. Baines, care of Mrs. Walter Hibbert. It is for you, Aunt Anne.""Thank you, my love." Mrs. Baines took it, with an air of slight but dignified vexation. "It was remiss of your servant not to put all my letters beside me. I am sorry you should be troubled with my correspondence.""But it doesn't matter," Florence answered. "I hope
you have not found her very expensive; she can be so sometimes." And through Florence's mind there went a remembrance of the dress in which Aunt Anne had appeared on the night of the dinner-party. A little flush, or something like one, went across the old lady's withered cheek."My love," she said, almost haughtily, "I have not yet given her charges my consideration. I have been too much engaged with more important matters.""I only hope she does not owe for that dress," Florence thought, but she did not dare ask any questions. "Madame Celestine is not a comfortable creditor, nor usually a small one."Then she understood Catty's and Monty's extreme silence for the past few minutes. It had suddenly dawned upon her how unusual it was."Why, my beloved babes," she exclaimed, "what are you eating?" and she looked across, laughingly, at Aunt Anne. "Where did those snowy mountains of cream come from?""They came by post, just now, my love," Mrs. Baines said, firmly."Oh, you are much too kind, Aunt Anne; but you will spoil the children, you will indeed, as well as their digestions. You are much too good to them; but we shall have to send them away if you corrupt them in this delicious manner.""It is most nutritious, I assure you," Aunt Anne answered, with great gravity, while with dogged and desperate haste she piled more and more cream on to Monty's plate. "I thought you would like it, Florence. I have ordered three pounds to be sent in one-pound tins at intervals of three days. I hoped that you would think it good
for the dear children--that they would have your approbation in eating it.""Of course, of course, and I shall eat some too," Florence answered, trying to chase away Aunt Anne's earnestness; "only you are much too good to them."The old lady looked up, with a tender smile on her face."It is not possible to be good enough to your children, my darling--yours and Walter's.""Dear Walter," said Florence, as she rose from the table; "I shall be glad to get his letter. Now, my monkeys, my vagabonds, my darlings, go up-stairs and tell nurse to take you out at once to see the trees and the ducks in the pond; go along, go along"--and she ran playfully after the children."May I go and buy my horse?" asked Monty; "and I think I shall buy a sword too. I want to kill a man.""He is just like his father," exclaimed Aunt Anne. "What is Catty going to do with her money?" she asked."Give it to mummy," the child answered, softly."And she is just like you, dear Florence," said the old lady, in a choking voice."She is just like herself, and therefore like a dickie-bird, and a white rabbit, and a tortoise-shell kitten, and many other things too numerous to mention," Florence laughed, overtaking Catty and kissing her little round face; "but go, my babes, go--go and get ready, your beloved mummy wants to turn you out of doors;" and, shouting with joy, the children scampered off.Florence took up the Times."Won't you have the paper, Aunt Anne, and a quiet quarter of an hour?""Thank you, no, my love; I rarely care to peruse it until a more leisurely time of the day. With your per-
mission I will leave you now; I have an hour or two's business out of doors--are there any commissions I could execute for you?""No, thank you."Aunt Anne was always thoughtful, Florence said to herself. Every morning since she came this question had been asked and answered in almost the same words."By the way, Aunt Anne, Mr. Wimple called yesterday. I am sorry I was not at home"--and this she felt to be a fib."He told me that he intended to do so before he left town."There was a strange light on Aunt Anne's face when she spoke of him; her niece saw it, with wonder."I dare say she takes a sort of motherly interest in him," she said to herself. "He is delicate, and she has no belongings; poor old lady! how sad it must be to have no belongings--no husband, no children, no mother, no anything. I don't wonder her sympathies go out even to Mr. Wimple." Then, aloud, she asked, "Is he going away for long?""He is going to some friends near Portsmouth by the twelve o'clock train to-day"--and Mrs. Baines glanced at the clock, "from Waterloo," she added."Are you going to see him off, Aunt Anne?""My love, I have an engagement in the City at one o'clock. I am going out now, but I cannot say what my movements will be between this and then."In a moment Aunt Anne's voice was a shade distant. Florence had only asked the question as a little joke and with no notion that Aunt Anne would take it seriously."I didn't mean to be curious," she said, and stroked the old lady's shoulder."I know you did not, my darling. Yon are the last person in the world to commit a solecism"--and again there came a smile to Aunt Anne's face. It made Florence stoop and kiss her."And you did tell me of your expedition to the Albert Memorial, remember," she went on, wickedly; "and I know that you and Mr. Wimple are very sympathetic to each other.""You are right, Florence. We have many tastes and sympathies in unison. We find it pleasant to discuss them together. Good-by, my love; do not wait luncheon for me. I shall probably partake of it with a friend"--and she left the room. Florence took up the Times again, but she could not read for thinking uneasily of the bill which she felt convinced Madame Celestine had just sent to Aunt Anne."I wish I could pay it," she thought; "but I can't, in spite of mamma's present this morning. It is probably at least fifteen pounds. Besides, Aunt Anne is such a peculiar old lady that the chances are she would be offended if I did."She put down the paper, and sat thinking for a few minutes. Then she went to the writing-table in the corner by the fireplace, unlocked the corner drawer and took out a little china bowl in which she was in the habit of keeping the money she had in the house. Four pounds in gold and a five-pound note. She took out the note, put in a check, locked the drawer, and waited.When she heard the soft footsteps of Aunt Anne descending the stairs she went to the door, nervously, uncertain how what she was going to do would be received. Mrs. Baines was dressed ready to go out. She was a little smarter than usual. Round her throat there was some
soft white muslin tied in a large bow that fell on her chest and relieved the sombreness of her attire. The heavy crape veil she usually wore was replaced by a thinner one that had little spots of jet upon it."Aunt Anne, you look as if you were going to a party."The old lady was almost confused, like a person who is found out in some roguish mischief of which she is half, but only half, ashamed."My love, I only go to your parties," she said; "there are no others in the world that would tempt me.""Can you come to me for five minutes before you start? I won't keep you longer.""Yes, with pleasure," Aunt Anne answered ; "but it must only be for five minutes, if you will excuse me for saying so, for I have an appointment that I should deeply regret not being able to keep."Florence led the old lady to an easy-chair and shut the door. Then she knelt down by her side, saying, humbly, but with a voice full of joy, for she was delighted at what she was going to do, if Aunt Anne would only let her do it,"I want to tell you that--that I had a letter from my mother this morning.""I know, my love. I hope she is well, and that you have no anxiety about her.""Oh no.""She must long to see you, Florence dear.""She does, she is such a dear mother--and she is coming to England in two or three weeks' time.""Her society will be a great solace to you.""Yes; but what I wanted to tell you is that she has sent me a present.""I hope it is a substantial one," Aunt Anne said, courteously."Indeed it is.""It rejoices me greatly to hear it, my love.""It is money--a check. My mother says she sends it to cheer me up after losing Walter.""She knew how your tender heart would miss him, my darling"--but she was watching Florence intently, with a hungry look that a second self seemed trying to control."And as I have had a present of filthy lucre, Aunt Anne, and am delighted and not too proud to take it, so I want you to have a present of filthy lucre and not to be too proud to take it; but just to have this little five-pound note because you love me and for any little odd and end on which you may find it convenient to spend it. It would be so sweet of you to let me share my present as my children shared the cream with you."Florence bent her head and kissed the old lady's hands as she pushed the bit of crisp paper into them. Aunt Anne was not one whit offended; it seemed for a moment as if she were going to break down and cry; but she controlled herself."Bless you, my darling, bless you indeed! I take it in the spirit you offer it me. I know the pleasure it is to your generous heart to give, and it is equally one to me to receive. I could not refuse any gift from you, Florence," she said, kissing Mrs. Hibbert, and when she departed, it was with an air of having done a gracious and tender deed. But, besides this, her footstep had grown lighter, there was a joyfulness in her voice and a flickering smile on her face that slowed how much pleasure and relief the money had given her."I am so glad," Florence thought, as she noticed it. "Poor old dear! I wonder if it will go to Madame Celestine, or what she will do with it. And I wonder where she is gone."CHAPTER VIIFLORENCE'S speculations concerning Aunt Anne were brought to an end by the arrival of Mr. Fisher. She was surprised at his paying her so early a visit, and for a moment feared lest it should mean bad news from Walter. But his benevolent expression reassured her."I hope you will forgive my intruding on you at this hour, Mrs. Hibbert," he said. "My visit is almost a business one, if I may venture to call it so, and I hope its result may be pleasant to us both."  His manner was a faint echo of Aunt Anne's. "I would have written to ask you to see me, but the idea that brings me only occurred to me an hour or two ago.""But of course I would see you," she answered, brightly. "And I think the morning is a delicious time of day to which we devote far too much idleness.""I thoroughly agree with you," he said, and looked at her approvingly.  In spite of his bachelorhood he was quite alive to the duties of domesticity. He had noticed quickly that all signs of breakfast had vanished; he divined that the children were out-of-doors, and that she herself, with her slate and account books, was deep in household matters. It was thus, he thought, that a woman should chiefly concern herself. Her husband, children, and home were her business in life. The rest could be left to the discretion and management of men. He felt that it was almost a duty on his part, in the absence of her husband,
 to discreetly manage Florence. Moreover, in the intervals of editing his paper, he had a turn for arranging the lives of other people, and he felt it almost an obligation to give a good deal of time to the consideration of the private affairs of his staff. He liked the Hibberts, too, and was really anxious to be good and useful to them. He had come to the conclusion that it was a pity that Florence and her children should stay in London while Walter was away. "She would be munch better in the country," he thought; "the children could run about; besides, what is the good of keeping that cottage near Witley empty?" And then he remembered his own mother, who was seventy years old and lived far off in the wilds of Northumberland. Her sole amusement appeared to be writing her son letters, lamenting that he never went to stay with her, and that, since he lived in small and inconvenient bachelor chambers, she could not go and stay with him. "It would not be a bad idea if I had the old lady up for a couple of months, and took the Hibberts' house," he said to himself. The idea grew upon him. He imagined the dinners he could give to his staff and their wives--not to the outside world, for it bothered him. "We might ask Ethel Dunlop occasionally," he thought; "a bright little minx would brighten up the old lady."  "Little minx" he considered a befitting epithet for a girl in her twenties. He remembered the twenties with regret, and wished they were thirties; then he would not have felt so keenly the difference in years between them. But he reflected that, after all, he was still in the prime of life; and he struggled to feel youthful; but, struggle as he would, youthful feelings held aloof. They were coy after forty, he supposed, and, looking back, he consoled himself by thinking that they had been rather
 foolish. Then he thought of Ethel's cousin; confound her cousin!--she seemed to like going about with him. Perhaps he made love to her; yet he was too much of a hobble-de-hoy for that, surely--three-and-twenty at most--a very objectionable time of life in the masculine sex, a time of dash and impudence and doing of things from sheer bravado at which wisdom, knowledge, and middle age hesitated. Ethel was probably only amusing herself with him. To fall in love with a cousin would show a lack of originality of which he was slow to suspect her. He wondered what the cousin did, and if he wanted a post of any sort; if he had a turn for writing and adventure. Perhaps he could be sent as special correspondent to the Gold Coast, where the climate would probably sufficiently engross him. Ethel at any rate might be invited to see his mother; it would cheer the old lady up to have a girl about her. Yes, he had quite made up his mind. Mrs. Hibbert should go to her country cottage with her two children; he would take the house near Portland Road for a couple of months; and the rest would arrange itself."I don't know whether Walter would like it," Florence said, when Mr. Fisher had explained his errand."I'll answer for Walter," Mr. Fisher said, concisely. Of course he, a man, knew better than she did what Walter, also a man, would like; that was plainly conveyed in his manner. "It will be better for you and the children," he went on, with gracious benevolence, for as he looked at Florence he thought how girlish she was. He felt, quite strongly, that in her husband's absence it was his duty to look after her, and to teach her, pleasantly, the way in which she should go. "I will send you plenty of novels to read, and if you would allow me to introduce you to her," he added, with a shade of pomposity in his voice,
"there is a friend of mine at Witley--Mrs. Burnett. You would be company for each other, I should say, for her husband comes up to town every morning, and--""I know her a little," Florence said; "a tall, slight woman, with sweet gray eyes.""I never looked at her eyes," Mr. Fisher said, quickly, and Florence felt reproved for having mentioned them. Of course he would not look at the eyes of a married woman. Mr. Fisher had clear and distinct views about the proprieties, which he thought were invented especially for married and marriageable women. "Perhaps Miss Dunlop would pay you a visit," he suggested."She has her father to take care of.  Besides, Mrs. Baines is staying with me.""I saw Mrs. Baines with Wimple the other day. Has she adopted him?""With Mr. Wimple?" Florence said, bewildered at the sudden mention of the name again; and then, remembering Walter, she added, loyally, "she likes him because he is Walter's friend.""He writes well," Mr. Fisher answered, as if he were making a remark that surprised himself. "He has done some work for us, and done it very well, too."Then he unfolded the details in regard to the taking of the house.Florence found, to her surprise, that he had arranged them all carefully."Let me see," he said, "this is Monday. You can go by Saturday, I suppose? I think that would be the best day for my mother to arrive.""Oh yes. There are things to get ready and to put away, of course.""They won't take you long," he answered, shortly."I suppose it will do the children good," she said, reluctantly."Of course it will.""I might ask Aunt Anne to take the children to-morrow--I am sure she would; then I could soon get the place ready.""Mrs. Baines? Yes, it would be an excellent plan to send her on first.""It is very kind of you; don't you think that you are really paying too much rent, Mr. Fisher?""Not at all, not at all; it is a fair one, and I shall be very glad to have the house."She was really a nice little woman, he thought--docile, and far from stupid; she only wanted a little managing. He had a suspicion that Walter was too easy-going, and if so, this little experience would be excellent for her; it would teach her that, after all, men were the governing race."Very well then, Saturday. Good-by. Oh, by the way, I should like to ask Miss Dunlop to come and see my mother; do you think she would mind cheering her up sometimes?""Oh no. She is a nice girl, too.""We might make a party to the theatre one night, perhaps. By the way, Mrs. Hibbert," he exclaimed, a sudden thought striking him, "I shall write to Walter as soon as I get to the office and tell him of this arrangement. I might as well enclose a note from you. The mail goes out to-day from Southampton, so that it would be too late to post, but I am sending specially by rail. I will wait while you write a note, and enclose it in mine.""I wrote by this mail last night," she answered. "But I should like to tell him about the house--he might be
angry."  She laughed at the last words. She only said them to keep up Walter's dignity."Oh no, he won't be angry," Mr. Fisher laughed back, and Florence thought he was quite good-looking when he was not too grave. He did not look more than forty, either--perhaps Ethel might be happy with him. Then, when she had written a few lines, he departed, satisfied with the result of his visit.An odd thing happened about that note. He went straight to the office and found a dozen matters of business awaiting his attention, and all remembrance of the Hibberts fled from him. Suddenly, an hour later, he dived into his pocket for a memorandum, and pulled out an unopened white envelope. He did not look at the address. "What's this?" he said, in utter forgetfulness, and tore it open; and--for his own name caught his eye--he read this passage in Mrs. Hibbert's note to her husband,"---he is a kind old fogy, and I think he likes Ethel D. Would it not be funny if he married her?"He folded it up quickly, for fear he should read more."Why should it be funny, and a man isn't an old fogy at forty--" he
said to himself.Meanwhile Aunt Anne was deeply engaged. She was delighted at Florence's unexpected gift; it would enable her to do a few things that only an hour or two ago she had felt to be impossible. She had not the least intention of paying Madame Celestine. She looked upon her as an inferior who must be content to wait till it was the pleasure of her superior to remember her bill, and any reminder of it she resented as a liberty. She spent a happy and very excited hour in Regent Street, and at eleven o'clock stood on the curbstone critically looking for a hansom.
She let several go by that did not please her; but at last, with excellent instinct, she picked out a good horse and a smart driver, and a minute later was whirling on towards Waterloo Station. She liked driving in hansoms; she was of opinion that they were well-constructed, a great improvement on older modes of conveyance, and that it was the positive duty of people in a certain rank of life to encourage all meritorious achievements with their approval. She never for a moment doubted that she was one of those whose approval was important. She felt her own individuality very strongly, and was convinced that the world recognized it. She was keenly sensible of making effects--and it was odd, but, for all her eccentricities, there was in her the making of a great lady; or it might have seemed to a philosophical speculator that she was made of the worn-out fragments of some past great lady, and dimly remembered, at intervals, her former importance. She had perfect control over her manner, and could use it to the best advantage; she had reserve, a power of keeping off familiarity, a graciousness, a winsomeness when she chose, that all belonged to a certain type and a certain class. As she went on swiftly to the station she looked half-disdainfully, yet compassionately, at the people who walked and the people who passed in omnibuses. She told herself that the list were excellent institutions; she wondered what the lower class would do without them; it rejoiced her to think that they had not got to do without them; it was a satisfaction to feel.At Waterloo, with an air of decision that showed a perfect knowledge of her own generosity, she gave the cab-man sixpence over his fare and walked slowly into the sta-
tion. She looked up and down the platform from which the Portsmouth train would depart, but saw no one she knew. She stood for a moment, hesitating, and winked slowly to herself. Then she went to the book-stall and bought a Times and a Morning Post; and again her mania for present-giving asserted itself, and, quickly, she bought also a pile of illustrated papers and magazines. "Gentlemen always like the Field," she said to herself, and added it to the heap. She turned away with them in her arms, and as she did so Alfred Wimple stood facing her."I have ventured to purchase a few papers, hoping they will beguile you on your journey," she said.Mr. Wimple was as grave as ever, and as ricketty on his legs. His face showed no sign of pleasure at the sight of the old lady, but his manner was deferential; he seemed to be trying to impress certain indefinite facts upon her."I never read in a train," he answered, "but I shall be glad of them at the end of the journey. Thank you."He said the last two words with a sigh, and put the papers in the corner he had already secured of the railway carriage. He looked at the clock. Twenty minutes before he started. He seemed to consider something for a moment, looking critically at the old lady while he did so."Cannot I persuade you to give me your address in Hampshire?" he coughed a little. "Have you got your glycerine lozenges with you?" she asked, hurriedly."Yes," he answered; "they are in my pocket. I will write to you, Mrs. Baines; I may have something of importance to say.""Everything that you say to me is important," she answered, nervously.He got into the train and sat down."I am tired," he said; "you must excuse me for not standing any longer."  He shivered as he opened the window. "I dislike third-class," he added, "but I go by it on principle; I am not rich enough to travel by any other, Mrs. Baines"--and he looked at her, fixedly.She was silent, she seemed fascinated; she looked at him for a moment and winked absently; then a thought seemed to strike her, and she started."Wait!" she exclaimed; "I will return in a moment," and she hurried away.In five minutes she came back, breathless with excitement. "I have taken a great liberty," she said, humbly, "but you must forgive me. I have ventured to get you this ticket; will you please me by changing into a first-class carriage. You must imagine that you are my guest"--and she looked at him anxiously. "The guard is waiting--""I cannot refuse you anything, Mrs. Baines"--and, with a chastened air, he pulled his portmanteau from under the seat. The guard was waiting outside for it and took it to an empty carriage.  Mr. Wimple followed, Aunt Anne carrying the papers. He took his place and looked round, satisfied. The guard touched his hat to the old lady and went his way. Mrs. Baines gave a sigh of satisfaction."Now I shall feel content, and you will not be disturbed," she added, triumphantly.  "I have spoken--" She stopped, for his hacking cough came back; she seemed to shrink with pain as she heard it."I am quite an invalid," he said, impressively."I wish I were going with you to nurse you.""I need nursing, Mrs. Baines," he answered, sadly. "I need a great many things.""I wish I could give them to you."He looked at her curiously; as if the words came from him without his knowledge, he said, suddenly,"I see Sir William Rammage is a little better.""I am going to inquire after him this morning," she answered, and then she drew a little parcel from beneath her shawl. "I want you to put this into your pocket," she said, "and to open it by and by; it is only a trifling proof that I thought of you as I came along.""I always think of you," he said, almost reproachfully, as, without a word of thanks, he put the parcel out of sight."Not more than I do of you," she said, in a low, choking voice. "I hear you cough in my sleep, and it grieves me to think how hard you have to work.""I can't take care of myself," he said. "I was always careless, Mrs. Baines--and I must work. Fisher is a very fidgety man to work for; it has taken me three days to review a small book on American law, and even now I am not sure that he will be satisfied."His voice never varied, the expression of his eyes never changed, save once for a moment. She had taken off her gloves and was resting her hands, thin and dry, on the ledge of the carriage window while she leaned forward to talk to him, and, suddenly, he looked down at them. They seemed to repel him, he drew back a very little. She saw the movement and followed his eyes; she understood perfectly, for she had quick insight, and courage to face unflinchingly even truths that were not pleasant. She drew her hands away and rubbed them softly, one over the other, as if by doing so she could put young life into them. Suddenly, with a jerk, the train moved."Good-by," she said, excitedly. "Good-by; if I write to the address in town, will the letter be forwarded?"But he could only nod. In a moment he was out of sight. He did not lean forward to look after her, he sat staring into space. "She must be seventy," he said. "I wonder--" Then he felt in his pocket for the third-class ticket he no longer needed. "Probably they will return the amount I paid for it." A sudden thought struck him. He looked at the ticket Mrs. Baines had given him. "It is for Portsmouth," he said, grimly.  The one he had taken himself had been for Liphook.CHAPTER VIIIIT was not at all a bad thing to do, Florence thought, as she sat and considered over the arrangement Mr. Fisher had so suddenly made in regard to the house in town and the cottage at Witley. The country would do the children good, and Aunt Anne would probably enjoy it. Of course the latter would consent to go with them. Indeed she had, clearly, no other resource. Florence wondered if she would like it.But Mrs. Baines was so full of news herself when she returned that she had no time to listen to any one else."My love," she said, "I have passed a most important day.""Relate your adventures, Aunt Anne." But at this request Mrs. Baines winked and spoke slowly."I had an engagement in the morning," she began, and hesitated. "When I had fulfilled it," she went on, " I thought it right, Florence, to go and call on Sir William Rammage. He has been ill, and I wanted to assure him of my sympathy. Besides, I felt that it was due to you--that it was an imperative duty on my part--to ask him for an allowance, and that it was his duty to give it to me.""But, Aunt Anne--""Yes, my love. I am living now on your generous kindness; don't think that I am insensible to it. But for your tenderness, my darling, I should have been alone in
a little lodging now, as I was when--when I was first left a widow.""I should not like to think of you in a little lodging, Aunt Anne," Florence said, gently; and then she added, gayly, "But continue your adventures."Mrs. Baines gave a long sigh, and was silent for a moment. She sat down in the easy-chair, and, as if she had not heard Florence's interruption, went on, with a strange tragic note in her voice,"I never told you about that time, Florence. I had three pounds in the world when I came to London--just three pounds to maintain my position until I could find something to do. I had a little room at Kilburn--a little room at the top of the house; and I used to sit day after day, week after week, waiting. I had no coals, only a little spirit-lamp by which I made some water hot, then poured it into a jug and covered it over and warmed my hands by it; it was often an hour before it grew cold, my love.""But why did you not come to us?""I couldn't," the old lady answered, in an obstinate tone. "I felt that it would not be treating you properly to present myself before you while I was so poor and miserable."  She paused and looked into the fire for a moment, then suddenly went on, "The woman at the corner where I went every morning to buy a newspaper saw that I was poor, and presumed upon it. Once she said I looked nipped up, and asked me to sit down and get warm. I reproved her for her familiarity, and never went to the shop again.""But perhaps she meant it for kindness?""She should have remembered her position, my love, and asked me in a different manner. There is nothing
more painful to hear than the remembrance of one's own rank in life when one has to encounter the hardships that belong by right to a lower class."  Aunt Anne paused again for a moment, and gave a long sigh before she went on, "We won't go over it, my dear. If Mrs. North had shown less levity in her conduct and more consideration to me, I should have been there still instead of living on your charity.""Oh no, Aunt Anne.""Yes, my love, it is so; even though you love me and I love you, it is charity; and I felt it keenly when you resented my little offering of cream this morning--you, to whom I would give everything I possess.""Oh no, Aunt Anne--" interrupted Florence."And so--and so," continued the old lady, with a little gasp, "I went to Sir William Rammage once more. I told him--I told him"--she stopped--"I told him how our mothers had stood over us together, years and years ago.""Yes, I know," Florence said, soothingly--she had heard this so often before. "I hope he was good to you?""My dear, he listened with compunction, but he saw the force of what I said. He will write and tell me how much he will allow me," she added, simply."I am very glad, Aunt Anne. I hope he will write soon, and be generous. I know it will make you happier.""It will, indeed," and Mrs. Baines gave another long sigh. "I shall not be dependent on any one much longer.""Except upon him," Florence said, unwittingly."No, I shall not feel that I am dependent even upon him," and she looked up quickly. "He will give it and
I shall take it for the honor of the family. I told him how impossible it was that I could go on living upon you and Walter, that it would be a disgrace.  I could not live upon him either. He has shown me so little sympathy, my love, that I could not endure it. I shall take the allowance from him as I should take an inheritance, knowing that it is not given to me for my own sake. I could not take it in any other spirit; but it would be as wrong in him to forget what is due to us, as it would be in me to let him do so. It would shed dishonor on his name.And again she was silent; she seemed to be living over the past, to be groping her way back among days that were over before Florence was even born, to be seeing people whose very names had not been heard for years."They would rise in their graves if I were left to starve," she continued; "I have always felt it; and it was but right towards them that I should go to William. It was due to them even that I should live on you and Walter, my darling, till I received an adequate income."Suddenly her voice changed again; the wonderful smile came back--the happy look that always seemed as if it had travelled from the youth she had left long years behind."You understand, my love?" she asked. "Bless you for all your kindness, but I am not going to intrude upon you much longer. I have already seen an apartment that will, I think, suit my requirements.""Oh, no.""Yes, my love, it will be much better. You cut me to the quick this morning, Florence," and her voice grew sad; "you said that you would have to send away your dear children because my influence would spoil them.""Aunt Anne!" Florence began, in consternation."Yes, dear; yes," the old lady said, solemnly. "It gave me the deepest pain, as I sat and thought it over in the privacy of my own chamber. But when I came downstairs and you shared your dear mother's gift with me, I knew that you loved me sincerely.""I do," said Florence, soothingly."I am sure of it, my darling," with even more solemnity, "but it will be better that I should take an apartment. It will rejoice your tender heart to know that by your gift you have helped me to secure one, and when I receive my allowance from Sir William I shall feel that I am independent once more. You must forgive me, my love; it is not that I do not appreciate your hospitality--yours and Walter's--I do. But I feel that it would sadden all my dear ones who are gone, if they knew that I was alone in the world, without a home of my own. That is why I went to Sir William Rammage, Florence; and, though he said little, I feel sure that he saw the matter in a proper light, and felt as I do about it.""What did he say?""He said he would think it over, and when he had made up his mind he would write to me. My love, would you permit me to ring the bell?""Yes, of course. Why do you always ask me? Don't you feel at home here, dear Aunt Anne?" Florence asked, thinking that Sir William's answer had, after all, committed him to little."I hope I shall never so far forget myself as not to treat you with the courtesy that you have a right to expect, my darling. I will never take advantage of our relationship--Jane," she said, with quite another manner, and in a cold and slightly haughty tone, to the servant who had entered, "would you have the goodness to divest me of my cloak?
--and if your mistress gives you permission, perhaps you would carry it up to my room?""Yes, ma'am," said Jane, respectfully, but without much willingness in her manner. (The servants had learned to resent the tone in which Mrs. Baines usually spoke to them. "She treats us like dirt," the housemaid explained to the cook; "and if we're made of dirt, I should like to know what she's made of? She give me a shilling the other day, and another time a new apron done up in a box from the draper's; but I don't care about her for all her presents. I know she always sees every speck of dust that others would be blind to; it's in her wink that she does.")"And now, Aunt Anne, that you have told me all your news, I want you to listen to mine," Florence said.Then she gave an account of Mr. Fisher's visit, and of the letting of the house for a couple of months."So, Aunt Anne," she continued, triumphantly, "I want you to be very, very good, and to go with the children and two of the servants to the cottage at Witley to-morrow, and to be the mistress of the great establishment, if you will, and mother to the children till I come; that proves how bad I think your influence is for them, doesn't it, you unkind old dear?"--and she stooped and kissed Mrs. Baines.Aunt Anne was delighted, and consented at once."I shall never forget your putting this confidence in me. You have proved your affection for me most truly," she said. "My dear Florence, your children shall have the most loving care that it is in my power to give them. I will look after everything till you come, more zealously than you yourself could. Tell me, love, where do you say the cottage is situated?""It is near Witley; it is on the direct Portsmouth road
--a sweet little cottage with a garden, and fir woods stretching on either side.""And how far is it from Portsmouth, my love?" Mrs. Baines asked, eagerly.Florence divined the meaning of the question instantly."Oh, I don't know, Aunt Anne; after Witley comes Hindhead, and then Liphook, and then Petersfield, and then--then I don't know. Liphook is the place where Mr. Wimple"--the old lady winked to herself--"has friends and sometimes goes to stay.""And how far is that?""About six miles, I think--six or seven.""Thank you, my love; and now, if you will allow me, I will retire. I must make preparations for my journey, which is, indeed, a delightful anticipation."Florence never forgot the late September morning on which she took Aunt Anne and the children to Witley. They went from Waterloo Station. She thought of Walter and the day they had spent at Windsor, and of that last one on which they had gone together to Southampton, and she had returned alone. "Oh, my darling," she said to herself, "may you grow well and strong, and come back to us soon again."Mrs. Baines, too, seemed full of memories. She looked up and down the platform; she stood for a moment, dreamily, by the book-stall before it occurred to her to buy a cheap illustrated paper to amuse Catty and Monty on the journey."My love," she said to Florence, with a little sigh, "a railway station is fraught with many recollections of meeting and parting--""And meeting again," said Florence, longingly thinking of Walter."Yes, my love," the old lady answered, tenderly, "and may yours with your dear one be soon."There were three miles to drive from Witley to the cottage. A long white road, with fir woods on either side; gaps in the firs, and glimpses of the Surrey hills, distant and blue, of hanging woods and deep valleys. The firs came to an end, and there were cliffs of gravel full of the holes of sand-martins. More woods, then hedges of blackberry-bushes, bare enough now; gorse full of late bloom; heather faded and turning from russet to black. Here and there a solitary house; masses of oak and larch and fir; patches of sunshine; long wastes of shade, and the road going on and on."Here we are at last," Florence said, as they stopped before a red-brick cottage that stood only a few yards back from the road. On either side of it was a fir plantation. There was a gravel pathway round the house, but the other paths were covered with tan. Behind stretched a wilderness of garden almost entirely uncultivated. There was a little footway that wound through it in and out among beeches and larches and firs and oaks, and stopped at last on the ridge of a dip that could hardly be called a valley."Sometimes," said Florence, as they walked about, half an hour later, while the servants were busy within, "we go down the dip and up the other side, and so get over to Hindhead. It is nearer than going there by the road.""Our house is over there," the children said."Their house," explained Florence, "is a little, lonely, thatched shed, half a mile away. We don't know who made it. It is in a lovely part on the other side of the dip, among the straggling trees. Perhaps some one tethered a cow in it once. The children call it their
house now, because one day they had tea there. After I return next week, we must try and walk across to it."But the old lady's eyes were turned towards the distance."And the road in front of the house," she asked, "where does that go to?""It winds round the Devil's Punch Bowl, and over Hindhead, and on, through Liphook and Petersfield, to Portsmouth."Aunt Anne did not answer; she looked still more intently into the distance, and gave a long sigh."It is most exhilarating to be out of London again, my dear Florence," she said. "I sincerely trust it will prove beneficial to your dear ones. I was born in the country, and I hope that, some day, I shall die in it. London is most oppressive after a time.""I like London," Florence answered; "still, it does now and then feel like a prison.""And the rows and rows of houses are the prison bars, my love. May we enter the cottage?" she asked, suddenly. She was evidently tired; she stooped, and looked older and more worn than usual."Poor old dear!" Florence thought. "I hope she is not worrying about Madame Celestine's bill, and that she will soon hear from Sir William Rammage. Then she will be happier."It was a little house, simple inside as well as out, with tiny rooms, plainly furnished. The dining-room had been newly done up, with cretonne curtains and a dado, and a buttery-hatch, in which Florence took a certain pride as something rather grand for so small a place. The drawing-room was old-fashioned--a stiff, roomy sofa, with hard, flat cushions, at one end; at the other a sweet jangling
piano. There were corner cupboards with china bowls of pot-pourri on them; on either side of the fireplace a gaunt, high-backed easy-chair, and on the left of each chair an old-fashioned screen on which was worked a peacock. Aunt Anne stopped on the threshold.It seemed to Florence as if the room recognized the old lady--as if it had been waiting, knowing that she would come. There was something about it that said, more plainly than any words could have said, that the hands were still that had first arranged it, and many footsteps had gone out from its doorway that would never come in at it more."It always depresses me," Florence explained; "but it is just as we found it. We refurnished the dining-room, and sit there a good deal. It is more cheerful than this. Come up-stairs"--and she led the way.The bedrooms were all small, too, save one in front, that seemed to match the drawing-room. It looked like a room to die in--a quaint, four-post bedstead with dark chintz curtains, a worm-eaten bureau, a sampler worked in Berlin wool and framed in black cherry-wood hanging over the fireplace."This is the best room," Florence said, "and we keep it for visitors. There is a little one, meant to be a dressing-room, I suppose, leading out of it"--and she went to a bright little nook with a bed in it. "I always feel that the best bedroom and the drawing-room belong to a past world, and the rest of the house to the present one.""It is like your life and mine, my darling--mine to the past and yours to the present.""I think you ought to sleep in the best room, Aunt Anne.""No, my love," the old lady interrupted, "let me have
this little one which is next it. When you require the other, if I am still with you, I can lock the door between. The best one is too grand for me; but sometimes while it is empty I will go in, if you have no objection, and look out at the fir-trees and the road that stretches right and left--""I like doing that," Florence interrupted. "It always sets me thinking--the road from the city to the sea.""From the city to the sea," the old lady repeated, "from the voices to the silences.""Aunt Anne, we mustn't grow sentimental--" Florence began. There was the sound of a tinkling bell. It seemed to come at an opportune moment. "Oh, happy sound!" she laughed; "it means that our meal is ready. Catty, darling," she called, "Monty, my son, roast chicken is waiting down-stairs. Auntie and mummy are quite ready; come, dear babes"--and patter, patter, came the sound of the little feet, and together they all went down.An hour later the fly came to the door; it was time for Florence to start on her way back to town."I shall be with you at latest on Tuesday. Perhaps, dear Aunt Anne, if you don't mind taking care of the bad children so long, I may go on Saturday for a day or two to an old school-fellow," she said. "Then I should not be here till the middle of next week.""Dear child, you do, indeed, put confidence in me," Mrs. Baines answered, quaintly."And, Aunt Anne, I have ordered most things in, but the tradespeople come every day, if there is anything more you want, and here is some money. Four pounds, I think, will carry you through; and here is a little book in which to put down your expenses. I always keep a
most careful account--you don't mind doing so either, do you?""My love, anything you wish will be a pleasure to me.""If you please, ma'am," said Jane, entering, "the driver says you must start at once if you want to catch this train.""Then good-by, dear Aunt Anne; good-by, dear dickie-birds; be happy together. You shall see me very soon again; send me a letter every other day"--and with many embraces Florence was allowed to get out of the door. But Aunt Anne and the children ran, excitedly, after her to the gate, and helped her into the little wagonette, and kissed their hands and waved their handkerchiefs as she drove off, and called "Good-by, good-by"--and so, watching them, Florence went along the white road towards the station.CHAPTER IXTHE days that followed were busy ones for Florence--busy in a domestic sense, so that the history of them does not concern us here. Mr. Fisher called one afternoon; by a strange coincidence it was while Ethel Dunlop was helping Florence with an inventory of china. Miss Dunlop readily promised to visit his mother, but she did not show any particular interest in the editor."He has been so kind," Florence said; "and don't you think he is very agreeable?""Oh yes; but you know, Florrie dear, he has a very square face.""Well?""It is a good thing he never married, he would have been very obstinate.""But why do you say never did?--as if he never would. He is only forty-odd.""Only forty-odd!" laughed Ethel; "only a million. If a man is over eight-and-twenty he might as well be over eighty, it is mere modesty that he is not.""Walter is over thirty, and just as fascinating as ever."Florence was rather indignant."Ah, yes, but he is married, and married men take such a long time to grow old. By the way, Mr. Fisher said something about a theatre-party, when his mother is here. Do you think I might ask him to invite George Dighton as well? George is very fond of theatres."Before Florence could reply a carriage stopped at the door; it looked familiar, it reminded her of Aunt Anne in her triumphant days. But a strange lady descended from it now, and was shown up-stairs to the drawing-room, in which Aunt Annie had sat and related her woes and known her triumphs."Mrs. North, ma'am," said the servant, and then Florence understood.She left Ethel in the dining-room with the inventory, and went up to receive the visitor. Mrs. North was as pretty as Aunt Anne had declared her to be--a mere girl to look at, tall and slim. Florence thought it was quite natural that her husband should like her to have a chaperon."I came to see Mrs. Baines," she said, coming forward in a shy, hesitating manner, "but hearing that she was in the country, I ventured to ask for you. What have you done with the dear old lady?"  Florence looked at her, fascinated by her beauty, by her clothes, that seemed to be a mixture of fur and lace and perfume, by the soft brown hair that curled low on her forehead, by the sweet blue eyes--by every bit of her. "You know, probably, that she was very angry when she left me? I thought, by this time, that she would, perhaps, forgive me and make it up; so I came." She said it with a penitent air."I am afraid she is very angry," Florence answered, half laughing, for the pretty woman before her did not seem like a stranger. "Do you want her again?""Oh no!"--and Mrs. North shook her head, emphatically. "No, indeed, that would be impossible; she led us a terrible life. But we loved her. I think we could have put up with anything if she had not quarrelled with the servants.""I was afraid it was that.""Oh yes," sighed Mrs. North, "she was horribly autocratic with them--'autocratic' is her own word. At last she quarrelled with Hetty and wanted me to send her away--to send away Hetty, who is a born treasure, and cooks like an angel. It would have broken our hearts; we couldn't let her go, it was impossible, so the old lady fled. Besides she did not approve of me--""I am very sorry. You were so very kind to her, she always said that.""I loved her," Mrs. North answered, with a little sigh; "she was so like my dear dead mother grown old--that was the secret of her attraction for us; but she ruled us with a rod of iron that grew more and more unyielding every day; and yet she was very kind. She was always giving us presents.""Oh yes," said Florence, in a despairing voice."We have had the bills for them since," Mrs. North went on, with a comical air. "She used to say that I was very frivolous," she added, suddenly. "She thought it wicked of me to enjoy life while my husband was away. But he's fifty-five, Mrs. Hibbert; one may have an affection for a husband of fifty-five, but one can't be in love with him.""If she were very nice she would not have made that remark to me, whom she never saw before," Florence thought, beginning to dislike her a little."Of course I am sorry he is away," Mrs. North said, as if she perfectly understood the impression she was making. "But I shall not be glad when he returns. He is coming almost immediately--" she gave a little gasp as she said it. "I don't know why; it is much sooner than I had expected. I took Mrs. Baines because he wished me to have an old
lady about me; but I wanted my own way. I liked her to have hers when it amused me to see her have it; when it didn't I wanted to have mine."  And Mrs. North looked up with two blue eyes that fascinated and repelled, and laughed a merry, uncontrolled laugh like a child's. "Oh, she was very droll.""Perhaps it is very rude of me to say it," Florence said, primly, for deep in her heart there was a great deal of primness, "but I can understand Mr. North wishing you to have a chaperon; you are very young to be left alone.""Oh yes, and very careless, I know that. And Mrs. Baines used to provoke me into shocking her. I could shock her so easily, and did--don't you know how one loves power for good or ill over a human being?""No, I don't," Florence answered, a little stiffly."I do, I love it best of all things in the world, whether it leads me up-hill or down-hill. But I am intruding," for she saw a set, cold look coming over Florence's face. "Let me tell you why I asked for you. I have been so embarrassed about Mrs. Baines.  She gave us presents, and she bought all sorts of things--but she didn't pay for them. These bills came, and the people wanted their money." She pulled a little roll out of her pocket. "She probably forgot them, and I thought it would be better to pay them, especially as I owed her some money when she left which she would not take;" and she laughed out again, but this time there was an odd sound in her voice. "They are from florists and all sorts of people."Florence looked over the bills, quickly and almost guiltily. There were the pots of fern and the flowers that had been sent to her and the children after Aunt Anne's first visit; and there were the roses with which she had triumphantly entered on the night of the dinner-party. "Oh, poor old lady!" she exclaimed, sadly."They are paid," Mrs. North said. "Don't be distressed about them; and many others--lace-handkerchief, shoes, all sorts of things. Don't tell her. She would think I had taken a liberty or committed a solecism"--and she made a little wry face. "But what I really wanted to see you about, Mrs. Hibbert, was Madame Celestine's bill. I am afraid I can't pay that all by myself; it is too long. Madame Celestine, of course, is sweetly miserable, for she thinks the old lady has vanished into space. She came to me yesterday. It seems that she went to you a few days ago, but you were out; and she was glad of it when she discovered that Mrs. Baines was your aunt, for she doesn't want to offend you. She came to me again to-day. She is very miserable. I believe it will turn her hair gray. Oh, it is too funny!""I don't think it is at all funny.""But indeed it is, for I don't believe Mrs. Baines will ever be able to pay the fifteen pounds; in fact, we know that she won't. Probably it is worrying her a good deal. I have been wondering whether something could not be done; if you and I, for instance, were to pay it between us.""You are very good, Mrs. North," Florence said, against her will."Oh no; but I am sorry for her, and it vexes and worries me to think of her being annoyed. I want to get rid of that vexation, and will pay something to do so. That is what most generosity comes to," Mrs. North went on, with mock cynicism--"the purchase of a pleasant feeling for one's self, or the getting rid of an unpleasant one. There is little really unselfish goodness in the world, and when one meets it, as a rule, it isn't charming, it isn't fascinating--one feels that one would rather be without it." She rose
as she spoke. "Well," she asked, "what shall we do? I'll pay one half of the old lady's bill if you will pay the other half.""You are very good," Florence repeated, wonderingly."No; but I expect yon are"--and Mrs. North showed two rows of little white teeth. "I should think you are a model of virtue," she added, with an almost childlike air of frankness, which made it impossible to take offence at her words, though Florence felt that at best she was only regarded as the possessor of a quality that, just before, her visitor had denounced."Why," she asked, smiling against her will, "do I look like a model of virtue?""Oh yes, you are almost Madonna-like; my husband would entirely approve of you. I have a dim notion that he is hurrying home because he does not approve of me," Mrs. North said, with a sigh. "I wish I were like you, only--only I think I should get very tired of myself. I get tired now, but a reaction comes. But a reaction to the purely good must be tame at best.""You are very clever," Florence said, almost without knowing it, and shrinking from her again."How do you know? My husband says I am clever, but I don't think I am. I am alive. So many people are merely in the preface to being alive, and never get any further. I am well in the middle of the book; and I am eager, so eager that sometimes I long to eat up the whole world, so that I may know the taste of everything. Do you understand that?""No. I am content with my slice.""Ah, that is it. I am not content with mine. You have your husband and your children.""But you have a husband.""Yes, I have a husband, too--a funny old husband, who cares as little for me as I do for him, I think"--Florence hated her--"and no children. I amused myself with the old lady--Mrs. Baines--till she fled from me. Now I try other things. Good-by.""Good-by," Florence said.As Mrs. North was going out of the door she turned and asked, "Have you many friends--women friends?""Yes, a great many, thank you," Mrs. Hibbert said, with a little haughty inclination of the head. The haughtiness seemed to amuse Mrs. North, for the merry look came over her face again, but only for a moment."I thought you had," she answered. "I have none; I don't want them. Good-by."It was nearly dark, and the one servant left to help Florence get the house ready had neglected to light the gas on the staircase. Mrs. North groped her way down."I want to tell you something," she said. "You said just now that I was clever. I don't think I am, but I can divine people's thoughts pretty easily. You are very good, I think; but consider this--your goodness is of no use if you are not good to others; good to women, especially. The good of goodness is that you can wrap others inside it. It ought to be like a big cloak that you have on a cold night, while the shivering person next to you has none. If you don't make use of your goodness," she went on with a catch in her breath, "what is the good of it?--I seem to be talking paradoxes; you prove how beautiful it is, perhaps, but that is all; you make it like the swan that sings its own death-song. One listens and watches, and goes away to think of things more comprehensible, and to do them. Good-by, Mrs. Hibbert," she said, gently--and, almost as if she were afraid, she held out her hand. Florence
took it, a little wonder-struck. "You are like a Madonna, very like one, as I said just now; but, though you are older than I am, I think I know more about some things than you do--good and bad. Madonnas never know the world very well. Give my love to the old lady, and say I hope she has forgiven me. Tell her my husband has suddenly sent a very disagreeable telegram to say he will be home this week. It will please her. She will think he will keep me in order. Tell her I was dismayed when I had it--that will shock her. I like to shock her"--and with a last little laugh she went out--into the darkness, it seemed to Florence.But the next minute there were two flashing lamps before the house; there was the banging of a door, and Mrs. North was driven away.Florence went slowly back to the dining-room and the inventory. Ethel Dunlop had gone. She was glad of it, for she wanted to think over her strange visitor."I don't understand her," she said to herself. "She is unlike any one I ever met; she fascinated and repelled me. I felt as if I wanted to kiss her, and yet the touch of her hand made me shiver." Then she thought of Madame Celestine's bill, and of Aunt Anne, and wished that the dress had not been bought, especially for the dinner-party; it made her feel as if she had been the unwitting cause of Mrs. Baines's extravagance. She looked into the fire, and remembered the events of that wonderful evening, and thought of Walter away, and the bills at home that would have to be paid at Christmas. And she thought of her winter cloak, that was three years old and shabby, and of the things she had longed to buy for the children. Above all she thought of the visions she had had of saving little by little, and putting her savings away in a very safe place, until she had a cosey sum with which some day to give Walter a pleasant surprise, and suggest that they should go off
together for "a little spree," as he would call it, to Paris or Switzerland. The fire burned low; the red coals grew dull; the light from the street-lamp outside seemed to come searching into the room, as though it were looking for some one who was not there. She thought of Walter's letter, safe in her pocket. He himself was probably at Malta by this time--getting stronger and stronger in the sunshine. Dear Walter, how generous he was; he, too, was a little bit reckless sometimes. She wondered if he inherited this last quality from Aunt Anne. She thought of her children at Witley having tea, most likely with cakes and jam in abundance; and of Aunt Anne in her glory. She wondered if Mr. Wimple had turned up. "Poor Aunt Anne!" she sighed, and there was a long bill in her mind. Presently she rose lighted a candle, drew down the blind--shutting out the glare from the street-lamp--and going slowly to the davenport in the corner, unlocked it, opened a little secret drawer, and looked in. There were three five-pound notes there--the remainder of her mother's gift. "I wonder if Mrs. North had Madame Celestine's bill," she thought. "But it doesn't matter; she said it was fifteen pounds. I can send her the amount."A couple of hours later, while she was in the very act of putting a
check into an envelope, a note arrived. It had been left by hand. It
was scented with violets, and ran thus:"DEAR MRS. HIBBERT,--I have
ventured to pay Madame Celestine. I determined to do so while I was
with you just now, but was afraid to tell you; that was why I changed
the conversation so abruptly. Please don't let the old lady know that
it is my doing, for she might be angry; but she was very good to me,
and I am glad to do this for her. Forgive all the strange things I
said this afternoon, and don't trouble to acknowledge this."Yours
sincerely,"E. NORTH.""P.S.--I enclose
receipt."CHAPTER XIT was not till Tuesday afternoon in the week following that Florence got back to Witley.Mrs. Burnett was at the station, sitting in a little governess-cart drawn by a donkey."I am waiting for my husband," she explained; "he generally comes by this train, and I drive him home, donkey permitting. It is a dear little donkey, and we are so fond of him.""A dear little cart, too," Florence answered, as she stood by its side, talking. "I have been hoping that you would come and see me, Mrs. Burnett; we are going to be here for six or seven weeks.""I know; Mr. Fisher told me," Mrs. Burnett replied, in her sweet and rather intense voice, "and we are so sorry that your visit takes place just while we are away. I am going to Devonshire to-morrow morning to stay with my mother while my husband goes to Scotland. I am so-o sorry"--she had a way of drawing out her words, as if to give them emphasis. Florence liked to look at Mrs. Burnett's eyes while she spoke; they always seemed to attest that every word she said expressed the absolute meaning and intention in her mind. Her listeners gained a sense of restfulness which comes from being in the presence of a real person from whom they might take bitter or sweet, certain of its reality. "I hoped from Mr. Fisher's note that you had arrived before, and ventured to call on Saturday.""Did you see Mrs. Baines?""Only for a moment. What a charming old lady!--such old-fashioned courtesy. It was like being sent back fifty years to listen to her. She wanted me to stay, but refused, for she was just setting off for a drive with your children and her nephew.""Setting off for a drive?" Florence repeated."Yes, she had Steggall's wagonette from  the Blue Lion, and was going to Guildford shopping. She said she meant to buy some surprises for you.""Oh," said Florence, meekly, and her heart sank. "Did you say that she had a nephew with her?""Well, I supposed it was a nephew, unless she has a son--a tall, fair young man, who looks delicate, and walks as if his legs were not very strong.""Oh yes, I know," Florence answered, as she signed to the fly she had engaged to come nearer to the donkey-cart, so that she might not waste a minute. "He is a friend; he is no relation. Good-by, Mrs. Burnett; I am sorry you are going away. I suppose you are waiting for the fast train, as Mr. Burnett did not come by this one?""Yes, it is due in twenty minutes. Good-by; so sorry not to have been at home during your visit. Oh, Mrs. Hibbert, do you think your children would like to have the use of this cart while we are away? The donkey is so gentle and so good.""It is too kind of you to think of it--" Florence began, beaming; for she thought of how Catty and Monty would shout for joy at having a donkey-cart to potter about in; and in her secret soul, though she felt it would not do to betray it, she was nearly as much pleased as they would be. Florence often had an inward struggle for the

dignity with which she felt her matronly position should be supported."It will be such a pleasure to lend it them. It's a dear little donkey--so good and gentle. It doesn't go well," Mrs. Burnett added, in an apologetic tone; "but it's a dear little donkey, and does everything else well." And over this remark Florence pondered much as she drove to the cottage.As she caught sight of the house she wondered if she had been absent more than half an hour, or at all. She had left it in the afternoon more than a week ago, and the children had stood out in the roadway, dancing and waving their handkerchiefs till she was out of sight. As she came back, there they stood, dancing and waving their handkerchiefs again. They shouted for joy as she got out of the fly."Welcome, my darling, welcome," Aunt Anne, who was behind them, exclaimed. "These dear children and I have been watching more than an hour for you. Enter your house, my love. It is indeed a privilege to be here to receive you.""It is a privilege to come back to so warm a welcome," Florence said, when, having embraced her children and Aunt Anne, she was allowed to enter the cottage; "and how comfortable and nice it looks!" she exclaimed, as she stopped at the dining-room doorway. There was a wood-fire blazing, and the tea set out, and the water in the silver kettle singing, and hot cakes in a covered dish in the fender.  Flowers set off the table, and in the pots about the room were boughs of autumn leaves. It all looked cosey and inviting, and wore a festival air--festival that, Florence knew, had been made for her. She turned and kissed the old lady, grate-

fully. "Dear Aunt Anne!" she said, and that was thanks enough. "I thought, my love, that you would like to partake of a substantial tea with your dear children on your return. Your later evening meal I have arranged to be a very slender one.""But you are too good, Aunt Anne.""It is you who have been too good to me," the old lady answered, tenderly. "And now, my darling, let me take you up to your chamber; it is ready for your reception."There was a triumphant note in her voice that prepared Florence for
the fire in her grate and the bouquet on the dressing-table, and all
the little arrangements that Mrs. Baines had devised to add to her
comfort. It was very cheery, she thought; Aunt Anne had a knack of
making one enjoy a home-coming. She pulled out Walter's letter and sat
for a few moments alone over the bedroom fire, and read it, and kissed
it, and put it back into her pocket. Then she looked round the cosey
room again, and noticed a little packet on the corner of the
drawers. Aunt Anne must have placed it there when she went out of the
room. On it was written, For my darling
Florence. "Oh," she said, "it's another present"--and,
regretfully, her fingers undid the string. Inside the white paper was
a little pin-cushion, covered with blue velvet, and having round it a
rim of silver filigree work. Attached to it was a little note, which
ran thus:"MY DARLING,--Accept this little token of my love and gratitude. I feel that there is no way in which I can better prove how much I appreciated your generous gift to me than by spending a portion of it on a token of my affection to you. I trust you will honor my little gift with your acceptance.""Oh," said Florence again, in despair, "I wonder if she

has once thought of Madame Celestine's bill or the others. What is the good of giving her money if one gets it back in the shape of presents?"But she could not bear to treat the old lady's generosity with coldness. So Aunt Anne was thanked and the cushion admired, and a happy little party gathered round the tea-table."And have you had any visitors except Mrs. Burnett?" Florence asked, artfully, when the meal was over."We have had Mr. Wimple," Aunt Anne said; "he is far from well, my love, and is trying to recruit at Liphook.""Oh yes, he has friends there.""No, my love, not now. He is at present lodging with an old retainer.""And have you been to see him?""No, dear Florence. He preferred that I should not do so.""We took him lots of rides," said Monty."And Aunt Anne gave him a present," said Catty; "and he put it into his pocket and never looked at it. He didn't know what was inside the paper--we did, didn't we, auntie?""My dear children," Mrs. Baines said, "if your mother will give you permission you had better go to the nursery. It is past your hour for bed, my dear ones."The children looked a little dismayed, but they never dreamed of disobeying. "Was it wrong to say you gave him a present?" asked Catty, with the odd perception of childhood, as she put up her face to be kissed. My dears," answered Aunt Anne, sweetly, "in my day children did not talk with their elders unless they were invited to do so.""We didn't know," said Catty, ruefully."No, my darlings, I know that. Bless you!" continued the old lady, sweetly; "and good-night, my dear ones. Under your pillows you will each find a chocolate which auntie placed there for you this morning.""And did you enjoy the drives?" Florence asked, when the children had gone."Yes, my dear, thank you." Mrs. Baines was silent for a moment. Then she raised her head, and, as if she had gathered courage, went on, in a slightly louder tone, "I thought it would do your children good, Florence, to see the country, and therefore I ventured to take them some drives. Occasionally Mr. Wimple was so kind as to accompany us.""And I hope they did him good, too," Florence said, trying not to betray her amusement."Yes, my love, I trust they did."Then Florence remembered the bills paid by Mrs. North. They were all in a scaled envelope in her pocket, but she could not gather the courage to deliver it. She wanted to ask after Sir William Rammage, too, to know whether he had written yet and settled the question of an allowance; but for that, also, her courage failed--the old lady always resented questions. Then she remembered Mr. Fisher's remark about Alfred Wimple's writing, and thought it would please Aunt Anne to hear of it."Mr. Fisher says that Mr. Wimple writes very well; he has been doing some reviewing for the paper."Mrs. Baines winked with satisfaction."I am quite sure he writes well, my love," she answered, quickly; "he is a most accomplished man.""And is there no more news to relate, Aunt Anne?" Florence asked; "no more doings during my absence?""No, my love, I think not.""Then I have some news for you. I hope it won't vex you, for I know you were very angry with her. Mrs. North has been to see me. She really came to see you; but when she found you had gone out of town, she asked for me."Mrs. Baines looked almost alarmed, and very angry. "It was most presumptuous of her!" she exclaimed."But why, Aunt Anne?" Florence asked, astonished."She had no right; she had not my permission.""But, dear Aunt Anne, she came to see you--and why should it be presumptuous?""I should prefer not to discuss the subject. I have expressed my opinion, and that is sufficient," Mrs. Baines said, haughtily. "I repeat that it was most presumptuous of her to call upon you--a liberty, a--Florence," she went on with sudden alarm in her voice, "I hope you did not promise to go and see her?""She never asked me.""I should have put my veto on it if she had. My dear, you must trust to my more mature judgment in some things. I know the world better than you do. Believe me, I have my reasons for every word I say. I treated Mrs. North with the greatest clemency and consideration, though she frequently forgot what was due to me. I was blind while I stayed with her, Florence, and did not see many things that I do now; for I am not prone to think ill of any one. You know that, my love, do you not? I must beg that you will never, on any account, mention Mrs. North's name again in my presence."Florence felt as if the envelope would burn a hole in her pocket. It was impossible to deliver it now. Perhaps, after all, the wisest way would be to say nothing

about it. She had an idea that Aunt Anne frequently forgot all about her bills as soon as she had come to the conclusion that it was impossible to make them any longer. She searched about in her mind for some other topic of conversation. It was often difficult to find a subject to talk about with Aunt Anne, for the old lady never suggested one herself, and, except of past experiences and old-world recollections, she seldom seemed sufficiently interested to talk much. Happily, as it seemed for the moment, Jane entered with the housekeeping books. They were always brought in on a Tuesday, and paid on a Wednesday morning. Florence was very particular on this point. They usually gave her a bad half-hour, for she could never contrive to keep them down as much as she desired. That week, however, she reflected that they could not be very bad; besides, she had left four pounds with Aunt Anne, which must be almost intact, unless the drives had been paid out of them; but even then there would be plenty left to more than cover the books. The prospect of getting through her accounts easily cheered Florence, for she always found a satisfaction in balancing them."They are heavy this week, ma'am," Jane said, not without a trace of triumph in her voice, "on account of the chickens and the cream and the company.""'The chickens and the cream and the company,'" laughed Florence, as Jane went out of the room--"it sounds like a line from a comic poem. What does she mean?"Aunt Anne winked, as if to give herself nerve."Jane was very impertinent to me one day, my love, because I felt sure that after the fatigue of the journey from town, and the change of air, you would prefer that

your delicately nurtured children should cat chicken and have cream with their second course every day for dinner, instead of roast mutton and milk pudding. White meat is infinitely preferable for delicate digestions.""Yes, dear Aunt Anne," Florence said, sweetly--and she felt a sudden dread of opening the books--"you are quite right."  What did a few chickens and a little cream matter in comparison to the poor old lady's feelings, she thought. "And if you had company too, of course you wanted to have a smarter table. Whom have you been entertaining, you dear and dissipated Aunt Anne?""My dear Florence, I have entertained no one but Mr. Wimple. He is a friend of yours and your dear Walter's; and I tried to prove to him that I was worthy to belong to you, by showing him such hospitality as lay in my power.""Yes, dear, and it was very kind of you," Florence said, tenderly. After all, why should Aunt Anne be worried through that horrid Mr. Wimple? Walter would have invited him if he had found him in the neighborhood, and why should not Aunt Anne do so in peace if it pleased her? Of course, now that she herself had returned, she could do as she liked about him. She looked at the books. They were not so very bad, after all."Shall we make up our accounts now, and get it over, or in the morning?" she asked."I should prefer the morning," Aunt Anne said, meekly. "To-night, love, you must be tired, and I am also fatigued with the excitement consequent on seeing you.""What a shame, poor Aunt Anne!" Florence said, brightly. "I have worn you out.""Only with happiness, my dear," said the old lady, fondly.Florence put away her books, and stroked Aunt Anne's shoulder as she passed." We will do our work in the morning," she said."Yes, my darling, in the morning. In the afternoon I may, possibly, have an engagement."Florence longed to ask where, but a certain stiffness in Aunt Anne's manner made it impossible."Have you any news from London?" she ventured to inquire, for she was longing to know about Sir William Rammage."No, my love, I have no news from London," Mrs. Baines answered, and she evidently meant to say no more.In the morning much time was taken up with the arrival of the donkey-cart and the delight of the children. A great basket of apples was inside the cart, and on the top was a little note explaining that they came from Mrs. Burnett's garden, and she hoped the children might like them. Aunt Anne was as much pleased with the donkey as the rest of the party."There is a rusticity in the appearance of a donkey," she explained, "that always gives me a sense of being really in the country.""Not when you meet him in London, I fear," Florence said.Mrs. Baines considered for a moment. She seemed to resent the observation."No, my love, of course not in London--I am speaking of the country," she said, reprovingly; then she added, "I should enjoy a little drive occasionally myself, if you would trust me with the cart, my love. It would remind me of days gone by. I sometimes drove one at Rottingdean. You are very fortunate, my dear one, in having so

few sorrows to remember--for I trust you have few. It always saddens me to think of the past. Let us go in-doors."Florence put her arm through the old lady's, and led her in. Then she thought of the books again; it would be a good time to make them up."I am always particular about my accounts, you know, Aunt Anne," she said, in an apologetic tone."Yes, my love," answered the old lady; "I admire you for it."Florence looked at the figures; they made her wince a little, but she said nothing. "The bill for the wagonettes, Aunt Anne?" she asked."That belongs to me, my dear.""Oh no, I can't allow that.""My love, I made an arrangement with Mr. Steggall, and that is sufficient."Again Aunt Anne's tone forbade any discussion. Florence felt sure that one day Steggall's bill would arrive, but she said nothing."Do you mind giving me the change out of the four pounds?" she asked, very gently. Mrs. Baines went slowly over to her work-basket, and took up a little dress she was making for Catty."Not now, my love; I want to get on with my work.""Perhaps I could get your account-book, Aunt Anne; then I should know how much there is left."Mrs. Baines began to sew."I did not put anything down in the account-book," she said, doggedly. "I considered, dear Florence, that my time was too valuable. It always seems to me great nonsense to put down every penny one spends.""It is a great check on one's self.""I do not wish to keep a check on myself," Mrs. Baines answered, scornfully.""Could you tell me how much you have left?" Florence asked, meekly. "I hope there may be enough to help us through the week."She did not like to say that she thought it must be nearly all left."Florence," burst out the old lady, with the injured tone in her voice that Florence knew so well, "I have but ten shillings left in the world. If you wish to take it from me you must do so; but it is not like you, my darling.""O, Aunt Anne," Florence began, bewildered, " I am sure you--I did not mean--I did not know--""I'm sure you did not," Mrs. Baines said, with a sense of injury still in her voice; "but there is nothing so terrible or so galling to a sensitive nature like mine--and your dear Walter's takes after it, Florence, I am sure--as to be worried about money matters.""But, indeed, Aunt Anne, I only thought that--that--"but here she stopped, not knowing how to go on for a moment; "I thought that perhaps the unpaid books represented the household expenses," she added, at last. Really, something must be done to make the old lady careful, she thought."My love," Mrs. Baines said, with an impatient shake of her head, "I cannot go into the details of every little expense. I am not equal to it. Everything you do not find charged in the books has either been paid, or will be charged, by my request, to my private account--and you must leave it so. I really cannot submit to being made to give an explanation of every penny I spend. I am not a child, Florence--I am not an inexperienced girl. I

had kept house before, my love--if you will allow me to say so--before you were born." The treble note had come into Aunt Anne's voice; it was a sign that tears were not far off.But Florence could not feel as compassionate as she desired. She smarted under the loss of her money. The was nothing at all to represent it, and Aunt Anne did not seem to have the least idea that it had been of any consequence. Florence got up and put the books away, looking across at Aunt Anne while she did so. The expression on the old lady's face was set, and almost angry; her lips were firmly closed. She was working at Catty's little dress. She was a beautiful needle-woman, and embroidered little cuffs and collars on the children's things that were a source of joyful pride to Florence. But even the host of stitches would not pay the week's bills. If only Aunt Anne could be made to understand the value of money, Florence thought--but it was no use thinking, for her foolish, housekeeping heart was full of domestic woe. She went up-stairs to her own room, and, like a real woman who makes no pretence to strong-mindedness, sat down to cry."If Walter were only back," she sobbed, as she rubbed her tearful face against the cushions on the back of the basket-chair by the fireside. "If he were here I should not mind--I might even laugh then. But after I have tried and tried so hard to save and to spend so little, it is hard--and I don't know what to do." She pulled out Walter's letter again and kissed it, by way of getting a little comfort, and as she did so, felt the envelope containing the receipts of the bills Mrs. North had paid. She did not believe that Aunt Anne cared whether they were paid or not paid. She always seemed to think that the

classes, who were what she pleased to consider beneath her, were invented simply for her use and convenience, and that protest in any shape on their part was mere impertinence.The day dragged by. The children prevented the dinner-hour from being as awkward as it might have been. Mrs. Baines was cold and courteous. Florence had no words to say. She would make it up with the old lady in the evening, when they were alone, she thought. Of course she would have to make it up. Meanwhile she would go for a long walk--it would do her good. She could think things over quietly, as she tramped along a lonely road between the hedges of faded gorse and heather. But it was late in the afternoon before she had energy enough to start.Mrs. Baines was in the dining-room, reading the morning-paper, which had only just come, when Florence put her head in at the door. She was evidently excited and agitated; she held the paper in one hand, and looked out towards the garden. But she seemed to have forgotten all the unpleasantness of the morning when she spoke."My love, are you going out?" she asked."I thought you had an engagement, Aunt Anne, and would not want me.""That is true, my dear; and I shall be glad to be alone for a little while, if you will forgive me for saying it. There is an announcement in the paper that gives me the deepest pain, Florence. Sir William Rammage is ill again--he is confined to his room.""Oh, poor Aunt Anne!""I must write to him instantly. I felt sure there was some good reason for his not having told me his decision in regard to the allowance." Then, as if she had suddenly

remembered the little scrimmage of the morning, she went on, quickly, "My love, give me a kiss. Do not think that I am angry with you--I never could be that; but it is unpleasant at my time of life to be made to give an exact account of money. You will remember that, won't you, dear? I should never expect it from you. If I had hundreds and hundreds a year I would share them with you and your darlings; and I would ask you for no accounts, dear Florence. I should think that the money was as much yours as mine. You know it, don't you, my love?""Yes, dear, I think I do," Florence answered, and she kissed the old lady, affectionately, thinking that perhaps, after all, she had made rather too much fuss."Then let us forget about it, my darling," Mrs. Baines said, with the gracious smile that always had its influence; "I could never remember anything long of you, but your kindness and hospitality. Believe me, I am quite sure that you did not mean to wound me this morning. It was your zealous care of dear Walter's interests that made you for a moment forget what was due to me. I quite understand, my darling. Now go for your walk, and be assured that Aunt Anne loves you."And Florence was dismissed, feeling as the children had felt the evening before, when they had been sent to bed and told of the chocolate under their pillows.CHAPTER XIThe gray sky and the dim trees, the black hedges and the absolute stillness--all these proved excellent comforters to Florence. They made her philosophical and almost smiling again. It was only when an empty wagonette of Steggall's passed her that she remembered the vexations of the morning. "Poor old lady!" she said to herself, with almost a laugh--"in future she must not be trusted with money, that is all. If she only would not scold me and treat me like a child, I should not mind it so much. Of course when Walter does it, I like it; but I don't like it from Aunt Anne."She had walked quite a long way. She was getting tired. The messengers of night were abroad--the stray breezes, the dark-flecked clouds, the shadows loitering by the trees, the strange little sounds among the hedges by the wayside. Far off, beyond the wood, she heard a clock, belonging to a big house, strike six. It was time to hurry home.  If she walked the two miles between herself and the cottage quickly, she would be in by half-past six. At seven, after the children had gone to bed, she and Aunt Anne were to sit down to a little evening meal they called supper. They would be very cosey that night; they would linger over their food; and Aunt Anne should talk of by-gone days, and the quaint old world that always seemed to be just behind her.It was rather dull in the country, Florence thought. In

the summer, of course, the out-door life made it delightful, but now there was so little to fill the days--only the children and the housekeeping, wonderings about Walter, and the writing of the bit of diary, on very thin paper, which she had promised to post out to  every week. She was not a woman who made an intellectual atmosphere for herself. She lived her life through her husband, read the same books, and drew her conclusions by the light of his. Now that he had gone, the world seemed half empty and very dull and tame. There was no glamour over anything. Perhaps it was this that had helped to make her a little unkind to Aunt Anne, for gradually she was persuading herself that she had been unkind. She wished Aunt Anne had an income of her own and the home for which she had said she longed. It would be so much better for everybody.When she was nearly home, a sudden dread seized her, lest Mr. Wimple should be there; but this, she reflected, was not likely. It was long past calling-time, and Aunt Anne was too great a stickler for etiquette to allow him to take a liberty, as she would call it. So Florence quickened her steps, and entered her home, bravely, to the sound of the children's voices up-stairs, singing as they went to bed. A fire was blazing in the dining-room, and everything looked comfortable, just as it had the night before. But there was no sign of Aunt Anne. Probably she was up-stairs "getting ready," for a lace cap and bit of white at her throat, and an extra formal, though not less affectionate, manner than usual, Aunt Anne seemed to think a fitting accompaniment to the evening meal. Florence looked round the dining-room, with a little pride of ownership. She was fond of the cottage; it was their very own--hers and Walters; and how wise they had been to do

up that particular room--it made every meal they ate in it a pleasure. That buttery-hatch too--it was absurd that it should be so, but really it was a secret joy to her. Suddenly her eye caught a package that had evidently come in her absence. A parcel of any sort was always exciting. This could not be another present from Aunt Anne?--and she drew a short breath. Oh no, it had come by rail. Books. She knew what it was--some novels from Mr. Fisher. "How kind he is," she said, gratefully; "he says so few words, but he does so many things. I really don't see why Ethel should not love him. I don't think she would find it difficult to do so," she thought, with the forgetfulness of womanhood for the days of girlish fancy."Mrs. Baines has not yet returned," the servant said, entering to arrange the table."Not returned? Is she out, then?""Yes, ma'am; she started half an hour after you did. Steggall's wagonette came for her."Florence groaned inwardly."Do you know where she has gone?""I think she has gone to Guildford, ma'am, shopping; she often did while you were away. I heard her tell the driver to drive quickly to the station, as she feared she was late.""Oh! Did any one call, Jane?""No, ma'am."Then, once more, Florence delivered herself over to despair. Aunt Anne must have gone to buy more surprises, and if she had only ten shillings in the world it was quite clear she would have to get them on credit. Something would have to be done. The tradespeople would have to be warned. Walter must be written to, and, if necessary, asked to cable over advice. Perhaps Sir William Ram-

mage would interfere. In the midst of all her perturbation seven o'clock struck, and there was no Aunt Anne.Florence was a healthy young woman, and she had had a long walk. The pangs of hunger assailed her vigorously, so, after resisting them till half-past seven, she sat down to her little supper alone. Food had a soothing effect on an agitated mind, and a quarter of an hour later, though Aunt Anne had not appeared, Florence had come to the conclusion that she could not get very deeply into debt, because it was not likely that the tradespeople would trust her. Perhaps, too, after all, she has not gone to Guildford. Still, what could keep her out so late?  The roads were dark and lonely; she knew no one in the neighborhood. It was to be hoped that nothing bad happened to her; and, at this thought, Florence began to reproach herself again for all her unkindness of the morning. But while she was still reviewing her own conduct with much severity, there was a soft patter, patter, along the gravel path outside, and a feeble ring at the bell. "That dissipated old lady!" laughed Florence to herself, only too delighted to think that she had returned safely at last.A moment later Aunt Anne entered. She was a little breathless; her left eye winked more frequently than usual; there was an air of happy excitement in her manner. She entered the room quickly, and seated herself in the easy-chair with a sigh of relief."My darling," she said, looking fondly at Florence. "I trust you did not wait for me, and that I have not caused you any inconvenience. But if I have," she added, in an almost cooing voice, "you will forgive me when you know all.""Oh yes, dear Aunt Anne, I will forgive you"--and Florence signed to Jane to bring a plate. "You must be

shockingly hungry," she laughed. "Where have you been--may I know?""I will tell you presently, my darling; you shall know all. But I can't eat anything," Aunt Anne answered, quickly. Even the thought of food seemed to make her impatient. "Jane," she said, with the little air of pride that Jane resented, "you need not bring a plate for me. I do not require anything." Then, speaking to Florence again, she went on, with half-beaming, half-condescending gentleness, "Finish your repast, my darling; pray, don't let my intrusion--for it is an intrusion when I am not able to join in your meal--hurry you. When you have finished, but not till then, I have a communication to make to you. It is one I feel to be due to you before any one else, and it will prove to you how much I depend on your sympathy and love." She spoke with earnestness, unfastening her cloak and nervously fastening it the while. Florence looked at her with surprise, with pity. Poor old lady, she thought, how easily she worked herself into a state of excitement."Tell me what it is now, dear Aunt Anne," she said, gently. "Has anything occurred to worry you? Have you been to Guildford?""To Guildford? No, my dear. Something has occurred, but not to worry me. It is something that will make me very happy, and I trust that it will make you very happy to hear it. I rely on your sympathy and Walter's to support me."  Florence was not very curious--Aunt Anne had always so much earnestness at her command, and was always prodigal of it. Besides, it did not seem likely that anything important had happened; some trifling pleasure or vexation, probably, nothing more.At last the little meal was finished; the things pushed

through the buttery-hatch; the crumbs swept off the cloth by Jane, who seemed to linger in a manner that Mrs. Baines in her own mind felt to be wholly reprehensible and wanting in respect towards her superiors. But the cloth was folded and put away at last, the buttery-hatch closed, the fire adjusted, and the door shut. Aunt Anne gave a sigh of relief; then, throwing her cloak back over the chair, she rose and stood irresolute on the hearth-rug. Florence went towards her."Have you been anywhere by train?" she asked."No, my love. I went to the station, to meet someone." She trembled with excitement while she spoke. Florence noticed it with wonder."What is it, Aunt Anne?" she asked, gently. The old lady stretched out her two thin hands, and suddenly dropped her head for a moment on Florence's shoulder; but she raised it quickly, and evidently struggled to be calm."My darling," she said, "I know you will sympathize with me; I know your loving heart. I knew it the first day I saw you, when you were at Rottingdean, and stood under the pear-tree with your dear Walter--""Yes, oh yes, dear--" Florence had so often heard of that pear-tree. But what could it have to do with the present situation?"I shall never forget the picture you two made," the old lady went on, not heeding the interruption; "I knew all that was in your dear heart then, just as I feel that you will understand all that is in mine now." Her face was flushed, her eyes were almost bright, and there were tears in them; the left one winked tremulously.Florence looked at her in amazement. "What is it, Aunt Anne? Do tell me; tell me at once, dear?" she

said, entreatingly. "And tell me where you have been, so late and in the dark."  For a moment Aunt Anne hesitated; then, with a gasp and a strong effort to be firm and dignified, she raised her head and spoke."My dear--my dear, all this time I have been with Alfred Wimple. He loves me.""He loves you?" Florence repeated, her eyes full of wonder; "he loves you? Yes, of course he loves you--we all do," she said, soothingly, too much surprised to speculate further."Yes, he loves me," Aunt Anne said again, in an almost solemn voice, "and I have promised to be his wife.""Aunt Anne!--to marry him!""Yes, dear, to marry him"--and she waited, as if for congratulations."But, Aunt Anne, dear--" Florence began, in astonishment, and then she stopped; for, though she had had some idea of the old lady's infatuation, she had never dreamed of its ending in matrimony. Mrs. Baines was excited and strange; it might be some delusion, some joke that had been played on her, for Mr. Wimple could not have seriously asked her to marry him. Florence waited, not knowing what to say. But Aunt Anne's excitement seemed to be passing, and, with a tender, pitiful expression on her face, she waited for her niece to speak. "But, Aunt Anne, dear," was all Florence could say again in her bewilderment."But what, Florence?" Mrs. Baines spoke with a half-tragic, half-resentful manner. "Have you nothing more to say to me, my love?""But you are not really going to marry him, are you?" Florence asked, in an incredulous voice.The old lady answered, in a terribly earnest one."Yes, Florence, I am; and never shall man have truer, more loving helpmeet than I will be to him," she burst out, heroically, holding herself erect and looking her niece in the face. There was something infinitely pathetic about her as she stood there, quivering with feeling and aching for sympathy, yet old, wrinkled, and absurd, her poor, scanty hair pushed back and her weak eyes full of tears. For a moment there was silence."But, dear Aunt Anne, he--he is so much younger than you," Florence said at last, bringing out her words slowly, and hating herself for saying them."Age is not counted by years, my darling," Aunt Anne answered, "and if he does not feel my age a draw-back, why should I count his youth one? He loves me, Florence--I know he loves me," she broke out, in a passionate, tearful voice; "and you would not have me throw away or depreciate a faithful heart that has been given me?"Then the practical side of Florence's nature spoke up, in despair. "But, Aunt Anne, he is very poor.""I know he is poor, but he is young and strong and hopeful; and he will work. He says he will work like a slave for me; and if he is content to face poverty with me, how can I be afraid to face it with him?""But you want comforts, Aunt Anne?""Oh no, my love, my tastes are very simple, and I shall be content to do without them for his sake.""But at your time of life, dear Aunt Anne, you do want them--you are not young, as he is." Then Aunt Anne burst into tears, tears that were evidently a blessed relief, and had been pent up in her poor old heart, waiting for an excuse to come forth."Florence, I did not think you would tell me of my

age. If I do not feel it, and he does not, why should you remind me of it? And why should you tell me that he is poor? Do you suppose that I am so selfish or--or that I would sell myself for comfort and luxury? If he can face poverty with me, I can face it with him. I did think, Florence, that you would have been kind to me, and have understood and sympathized. I told him that on your heart and Walter's I could rely. You know how lonely I have been--how desolate and how miserable. But for your bounty and goodness I should have died--""Oh no, dear Aunt Anne--""And now, in this great crisis--now, when a young, brave, beautiful life is laid at my feet; now that I am loved as truly as ever woman was loved in this world, as tenderly as Walter loves you, Florence--you fail me, as--as if"--she put her hand to her throat to steady her quivering voice--"as if you would not let me taste the cup of happiness of which you drink every day.""But, Aunt Anne, it isn't that, indeed," Florence answered, thinking, despairingly, of Walter, and wishing that she could begin writing to him that very minute, asking him what on earth she ought to say or do. "It is that--that--it is so unexpected, so strange. I knew, of course, that you liked him, that you were good friends; but I never dreamed that he was in love with you."Aunt Anne's tears seemed to vanish as if by magic; her left eye winked, almost fiercely; her lips opened, but no sound came. With a great effort she recovered her voice at last, and, with some of her old dignity, dashed with severe surprise, she asked,"My darling, is there any reason why he should not love me?"She stood, gravely waiting for a reply, while Florence

felt that she was managing badly--that she was, somehow, hurting and insulting Aunt Anne. After all, the old lady had a right to do as she liked; it was evident that she was incapable of taking in the absurdity of the situation."But, Aunt Anne--" she began, and stopped."My dear Florence," Mrs. Baines repeated, still more severely, "will you tell me if there is any very obvious reason why he should not love me? I am not an ogress, my darling--I am not an ogress," she cried, suddenly breaking down and bursting into floods of tears, while her head dropped on to her black merino dress.She looked so old and worn, so wretched and lonely, as she stood there, weeping bitterly, that Florence could stand it no longer, and, going forward, she put her arms round the poor old soul, and kissed her fondly."No, dear Aunt Anne," she said, "you are not an ogress--you are a sweet old dear, and I love you. Don't cry--don't cry, you dear.""My love, you are cruel to me," Aunt Anne sobbed."Oh no, I am not, and you shall marry any one you like. It was a little surprising, you know, and of course I didn't--I didn't think that marrying was in your thoughts," she added, feebly, for she didn't know what to say."Bless you, my darling, bless you!" the old lady gasped, gratefully; "I knew you would be stanch to me when you had recovered from the surprise of my communication; but--" and she gently disengaged herself from Florence's embrace and spoke in the nervous, quivering voice that always came to her in moments of excitement--"but, Florence, since the first moment we met, Alfred Wimple and I have felt that we were ordained for each other.""Yes, dear," Florence said, soothingly."He says he shall never forget the moments we sat together on your balcony that night when your dear Walter fetched the white shawl of yours, Florence, to put round my shoulders," the old lady went on, earnestly. "And the sympathy between us is so great that we do not feel the difference of years; besides, he says he has never liked very young women; he has always felt that the power to love accumulated with time, as my power to love has done. Few of the women who have been loved by great men have been very young, my darling.""I didn't know," Florence began, for Aunt Anne had paused, almost as if she were repeating something she had learned by heart."He asked me to-night," she went on, with another little gasp, "if I remembered--if I remembered--I forget--But all the great passions of history have been concentrated on women in their prime. Petrarch's Laura had eight children when the poet fell in love with her, and Helen of Troy was sixty when--when--I forget"--she said again, shaking her head; "but he remembers; he went through them all to-night. Besides, I may be old in years, but I am not old at heart; you cannot say that I am, Florence."She was getting excited again. Almost without her knowledge Florence led her to the easy-chair, and, gently pushing her down into it, undid the strings and tried to take off her bonnet; but the old lady resisted."No, my dear, don't take off my bonnet," she said--"unless you will permit me to ring," she added, getting back to her old-fashioned formality, "and request Jane to bring me my cap from up-stairs."But Florence felt that Jane might look curiously at the wrinkled face that still showed signs of recent agitation,

so she put her hand softly on the one that Aunt Anne had stretched out to touch the bell."I will get it for you, dear," she said, and in a moment she had tripped up-stairs and brought down the soft lace cap put ready on the bed, and the cashmere slippers edged with fur and lined with red flannel, in which Aunt Anne liked to encase her feet in the evening. "There, now, you will feel better, you poor dear!" she said, when they were put on, and the old lady sat silent and composed, looking as if she were contemplating her future and the new life before her. Florence stood by her silently for a moment, thinking the past weeks over, in which Aunt Anne, with her poverty and dignity, her generosity and recklessness, had formed so striking a figure. Then she thought of the lonely life the poor old lady had led in the little lodging.After all, if she only had even a very little happiness with that horrid Mr. Wimple, it would be something; and of course, if he didn't behave properly, Walter could take her away. The worst of it was, she had understood that Mr. Wimple had no money. She had heard that he lived on a small allowance from an uncle, and the uncle might stop that allowance when he heard that his nephew had married an old woman who had not a penny."Aunt Anne," she asked, gently, "does he know that you are not rich?""Florence, I told him plainly that I had no fortune," the old lady answered, with a pathetic, half-hunted look on her face that made Florence hate herself for her lack of sympathy. But she felt that she ought to ask some questions. Walter would be so angry if she allowed her to go into misery and fresh poverty without making a single effort to save her."And has he money, dear--enough to keep you both, at any rate?"The tears trickled down Aunt Anne's face again while she answered, "If I did not ask him that question, Florence, it is not for you to ask it me. I neither know nor care what he has. If he is willing to take me for myself only, so am I willing to take him, loving him for himself only, too. I am too old to marry for money, and he is too noble to do so. We are grown-up man and woman, Florence, and know our own hearts; we will brook no interference--we will brook no interference, my darling, not even from you."She got up tremblingly."I must retire," she said; "you must allow me to retire, and in the privacy of my own room I shall be able to reflect."The long words were coming back; they were a sign that Aunt Anne was herself again."Yes, dear Aunt Anne; I am sure you must want to be alone, and to think," Florence said, gently.The old lady was not appeased."You know, you remember what you felt yourself when your Walter first loved you, Florence," she said, distantly. "Yes, I must be alone; my heart is full--I must be alone."Florence led her up-stairs to her room. Mrs. Baines stood formally in the doorway."Good-night, my love," she said, with cold disappointment in her voice, which she seemed unable to control."Can't I help you, Aunt Anne?" Florence asked, almost entreatingly."No, my love, I must be alone," Mrs. Baines repeated firmly, and, retreating into her room, she shut the door.CHAPTER XIITHE next morning Aunt Anne did not appear. She sent word that she would like her breakfast carried up, a fire lighted in her room, and to be left alone for a couple of hours.Florence was distracted. She had written to Walter; but, as the mail did not go out till three days later, nothing was gained by her haste. She had considered things all round, and the more she did so the more amazing did Mr. Wimple's proposal seem. It was all nonsense to suppose, as Aunt Anne evidently believed, that he was in love with a woman more than twice his age. Florence mentally reviewed Aunt Anne's charms. She was not even a round, plump old lady, with rosy cheeks and a stray dimple that seemed to have found her company so good it was loath to vanish altogether. She was wrinkled and thin and feeble-looking. Her eyes were small and weak; the left one had the nervous affection that so often provided an almost droll accompaniment to her talk. Her skin was withered and sallow. Florence tried to feel like a young man about to marry Aunt Anne, and the idea was not pleasant. She felt that it was almost a duty to prevent the marriage if possible--that Aunt Anne owed it to her past years, to her own dignity, to her relations, to every one and everything, not to make a fool of herself.The children went out at ten o'clock. Florence listened to their shouts of joy as they drove off in the donkey-cart.

Then, hurrying through her domestic affairs, she sat down in one of the gaunt easy-chairs by the drawing-room fire to consider matters. It somehow seemed fitting to sit in the old-world little room while she thought over Aunt Anne's romance. She could hear the old lady moving about overhead, but was afraid to go up to her again, for she had been refused admittance two hours ago. Jane, who was overwhelmed with curiosity, had managed to go in and out once or twice, and reported that Mrs. Baines was dressed and looking through the contents of her trunks, "just as if she was packing up." Florence wondered what it meant, and a dim suspicion of the truth crossed her mind. She felt, too, as if in the little cottage by the lonely roadside a tragedy was beginning in which Aunt Anne would play central figure. She shut her eyes for a moment, and, as if in a dream, could see the old lady wringing her thin hands, then stretching them out, almost imploringly. "Oh, dear Aunt Anne," she cried, "something must be done. No good can come of this wild nonsense."Suddenly, on the gravel footpath outside, she heard a footstep, just as she had heard Aunt Anne's footstep the night before. She got up quickly and looked out. It was Mr. Wimple. He must have come up from the dip at the end of the garden, the short way from Hindhead and the Liphook road. He was going round the house. Florence darted out and opened the front door before he had time to ring. All in a moment it had struck her that if she could get a talk with him, some explanation, perhaps some good, might come of it. Yet her heart ached, she felt cruel and treacherous, as if she were trying to cheat Aunt Anne of a promise--even though it was a ridiculous promise--of happiness. She thought of the

poor old lady's tears, of her pleading, of her piteous "as if you grudged me the cup of happiness of which you taste every day." After all, she had a right to do as she pleased; but that was a foolish argument. She had aright to put herself on the kitchen fire if she pleased, but it would be distinctly the duty of the nearest person to pull her off and prevent her from being burned.Mr. Wimple stared at Florence. "How do you do, Mrs. Hibbert," he said, with extreme gravity. He did not hold out his hand or look as if he expected to enter, but stood still on the door-step."I saw you coming and wanted to speak to you, Mr. Wimple," she said, almost breathlessly--"won't you come in?" Without a word he entered. She led the way to the drawing-room and shut the door. She pointed to one of the chairs beside the screen with a peacock on it, and he sat down, still without a word, and waited for her to speak. She took the other chair and faced him. The light was full upon him, but there was no expression in his eyes, not even one of inquiry."Mr. Wimple," she said, in a low voice, for she was afraid of Aunt Anne, above, hearing the hum of conversation, "I wanted to speak to you about Aunt Anne--Mrs. Baines." He looked at her then, but still he said nothing. "I am very fond of her," she added, as if in excuse for her interference."I am sure you are," he answered, and waited. Florence was forced to go on."She came home last night, and she surprised me so--she told me--Oh, Mr. Wimple, it cannot be true?""What cannot be true, Mrs. Hibbert?" he asked, speaking like an automaton."That--that--that--that you asked her to marry you?""It is quite true," he said, and looked at her unflinchingly; his face wore an expression of slight surprise."But it is so strange, so unsuitable--she is so much older than you?""I know she is much older." He seemed to unlock his lips every time he spoke."And, Mr. Wimple, do you know that she is not rich?--that--that she has no money--nothing? She is poor.""I know she is poor, Mrs. Hibbert." he seemed to be afflicted with an utter destitution of language, an incapacity to say anything but the shortest, most cut-and-dried sentence. It affected Florence. But again she struggled on; though she felt her own words come with difficulty."And you--forgive me, but I am fond of her--and you, I believe, are not rich. Walter told me that you were not. And, and--" She was beginning to despair of making any way with Mr. Wimple. His eyes were dull and uninterested; he seemed insensible to everything except the burden of his own gravity."I am not rich, Mrs. Hibbert," he said. The manner in which he repeated her name at the end of every sentence irritated her."And, oh, Mr. Wimple," she went on, "it is so unsuitable!"  But he said nothing, though she waited. "It is so strange, and Walter will be so angry!""It is not Walter's affair, Mrs. Hibbert; it is mine," he said."And hers--and Aunt Anne's too.""And hers," he repeated."And she is old; she wants comforts and luxury--oh, I cannot bear to think of it. It seems so cruel.""We have talked it all over, Mrs. Hibbert; she knows best herself what she wants," he answered, without the slightest change in his manner."But are you really in love with her?""I am very fond of her," he said, blankly.Florence put her hand to her throat to steady her utterance."But you are not in love with her? You can't be--she is old enough to be your mother? She is a dear, sweet old lady, but you can't be in love with her!""I don't see the necessity of our discussing this," he said, with extreme gravity."But she is my aunt--at least she is Walter's, which is all the same." He gave a little dry cough."Mrs. Baines and I have settled our affairs, Mrs. Hibbert," he said. "There is no necessity to go over them.""But it is so ridiculous.""Then we will not talk about it." Suddenly he looked at her; there was no change in his tone, but he opened his eyes a little wider as if to impress upon her the importance of his next words. "We don't wish our private affairs made known to the world," he said; "there is no necessity to talk of them at all; they are of no importance except to ourselves. We don't wish to talk about them or to hear of their being talked about. Will you remember this, Mrs. Hibbert?" It was quite a relief to get three consecutive sentences out of him."But, Mr. Wimple, do tell me that, if you persist in marrying her, you will make her happy, you will be good to her, and--that you can keep her in some sort of comfort," Florence said, in despair."I will talk to her about this, Mrs. Hibbert. It is her affair," he said, solemnly, and Florence felt altogether worsted, left out in the cold, put back, and powerless. She sat silently by the fire, not knowing what to do or say. Mr. Wimple made no sign. She looked up at him.

What could Aunt Anne see to like in him, in his dull eyes, his thin lips, his straggling sandy hair and whiskers, his pink-and-white, yet unhealthy, complexion. He met her gaze steadily. "Is there anything more you wish to say to me?" he asked; "I have not much time.""No," she answered, chokingly, "there is nothing--if you would only be a son to her, a friend--anything, rather than marry her. Oh, Mr. Wimple, if you really do care for her, don't make her ridiculous in her old age, don't make her unhappy. Happiness cannot come of an absurd marriage like this. You ought to marry a girl, a young woman. One day Walter and I saw you at Waterloo--"He fixed his eyes upon her, and there was a slight look of curiosity in them now, but he was absolutely calm."Well, Mrs. Hibbert?" he said."We thought that perhaps she was--was some one you liked; she was young, it would have been much more suitable--""I must know what I desire, and what is most suitable for myself, Mrs. Hibbert," he answered, without a shade of vexation, but with quiet determination in his voice. Then Jane, evidently to her own satisfaction, entered."If you please, ma'am, Mrs. Baines says she would like to speak to Mr. Wimple when you have quite finished with him.""Tell Mrs. Baines I will go up to her in a moment; I want to speak to her."  She turned to Mr. Wimple again when Jane was gone. He rose, as if to signify that he considered their conversation at an end. "I fear there is nothing more to say," she said, lamely, for this man, with his silence and utter lack of response, had made every word that suggested itself seem weak and hopeless."I think not, Mrs. Hibbert," he said."But for your own happiness, Mr. Wimple," she said, suddenly struck with a new way of putting it--"you surely can't want to marry Mrs. Baines for the sake of your own happiness?""I want to marry Mrs. Baines as much for my own sake as for hers"--and he looked at her in a manner that was almost a dismissal. It had an influence over her that she could not help: almost against her will she rose, feeling that there was no excuse for prolonging the interview."I will send Mrs. Baines to you," she said, in despair."Thank you, Mrs. Hibbert, if you will," he said, and held open the door for her to pass out.Aunt Anne heard the drawing-room door open and Florence's footstep on the stairs. She waited eagerly in the doorway of her own room. She wore her best dress round her throat there was an extra handkerchief; in her manner more than the usual nervous agitation. Glancing in at the bedroom, Florence could see that she had been packing, making ready for a journey."Oh, Aunt Anne--" she began."Yes, my love, I am going to town," the old lady said, with a cold reserve in her tenderness that showed clearly she was displeased. "I cannot stay longer under your roof--you must not ask me to do so," she went on. "I was cut to the quick by your want of sympathy last night, I cannot recover from it; I could not expose myself to it again. My luggage is ready, and when I have seen my dear Alfred I shall be able to tell you the time of my departure.""Oh, Aunt Anne, it is cruel," Florence said, dismayed."No, my love, it is not cruel, but I must respect myself. I would not hurt you for the world, Florence, but you have hurt me.""I wouldn't hurt you, either, for the world, but--""Where is Mr. Wimple, my love?" the old lady asked, interrupting her niece, with a long sigh."He is down-stairs; I have been talking to him.""Yes, my love, I understand. I appreciate all your solicitude for my happiness, but you should allow those who are older and wiser than you to know what is best for themselves. I will see you again when he is gone, Florence"--and, almost imperiously, Mrs. Baines went down-stairs.She entered the drawing-room and shut the door. Mr. Wimple was standing on the hearth-rug. She looked a him nervously for a moment, and winked solemnly as usual with her left eye."My darling!" she said, and, putting her arms round his neck, she kissed his face on both sides. "My darling Alfred, are you glad to see me?" He submitted to her caress, almost formally, then drew back a little. His manner was no warmer than it had been to Florence."Yes, I am glad to see you," he said, and looked at her with his eyes wide open, as if to show that he perfectly understood his position."My darling, I have suffered terribly--Florence had no sympathy for us. She said it was an unsuitable marriage, that you had no fortune, and that I had none. My poverty is hard enough to bear without being told of it. What did she say to you, Alfred?--my dear one, she has not turned your love from me?" She put out her arms again, as if to gather him to her, but he looked blindly past her."Sit down," he said, and pushed her gently on to the chair beside the peacock-screen."She has not taken your love from me?--tell me that,"

Mrs. Baines said, entreatingly. "A few hours ago you assured me of your devotion--she has not taken it from me?""No.""I am just the same to you?" she asked. He turned his eyes on her again."You are just the same," he said, with a gulp, and there was no tenderness in his manner. He seemed to be speaking almost under compulsion."My darling, my darling," she said, softly, "bless you for those dear words! I will be truer to you, Alfred, than ever woman was to man before. But I cannot stay here; you must take me away. I have already packed my things; I cannot remain another night, not knowing to what treatment I may be subjected. I love Florence most sincerely--she and Walter and their children are very dear to me--but after her coldness to me last night, when I came in full of your love and my own happiness, and she denied me all sympathy, I cannot stay. You must not ask me to do that, Alfred!" There was more interest in his manner now, though his gravity never relaxed."Where will you go?" he asked."I shall go to London, my darling," she said, stretching out her hands; "but I cannot go alone, after all I have suffered during the last twenty-four hours." He looked at her, questioningly."Suffered? What have you suffered?" he asked. "I thought you were happy about it.""About you?--yes, my darling; but Florence has tortured me--""It does not take much to torture you, Anne," he interrupted. "What did she say?""I have told you already--I cannot go over it again.

Don't ask me to do so. You could torture me, Alfred, with a word or a look--if you ceased to love me.""We need not discuss that improbability now," he said, solemnly; "what about your going to London?""I shall go by the quarter-past-one-o'clock train this afternoon," she answered; "you will take me, will you not?""I cannot go to-day," he said, firmly; "I must get back to Liphook now." He pulled out his watch, a dull, worn Waterbury one, at which Aunt Anne looked keenly. "But I will go to-morrow; I want to see my uncle very much." His thoughts seemed to be intent on business matters. She waited a moment, after he had finished speaking, and winked slowly to herself before she answered."Alfred," she asked, "you do truly love me?" He looked at her steadfastly."Yes," he answered, "I told you so last night." She half rose from her chair again, but he waved her back. "Sit down," he said, and she obeyed."I know you did, and I will never doubt it. In by-gone days, my darling, I was foolish and wicked, and played with the truest love ever given to woman. But I am wiser now. You must never doubt me. Promise me that you never will.""I promise you," and he closed his lips."My dear, my dear," she said softly to herself, and stopped for a moment before she went on, aloud, "I must go to town this afternoon, and you must take me. My courage is not equal to encountering the journey alone. You will take me, my darling?""Where will you go when you get to London?""I know of some apartments--two rooms; I saw them

the day before I came away. If they are still unlet I shall rent them. But when we arrive I shall go straight to Sir William Rammage. I have business with him. He is very ill, Alfred--it was in the paper yesterday; but he will see me, and when he knows all--""You will tell him nothing about me," he said, in his slow, determined voice. She winked indignantly."Alfred," she answered, "I must tell him. I shall tell him that you love me; that I have won a true and noble heart, and that we are going through life together.""You will tell him nothing," Mr. Wimple repeated, with something like fright in his dull eyes. "If you did my uncle would hear of it, and would think I was mad." He added the clause about his uncle as if he thought an explanation due to her."Mad to marry me?""Mad to think of marriage at all. He objects to it on principle.""But if he knew how tenderly and truly I loved you--""You must not say one word about it, to him or to anyone," came the firm, hard voice."Is it because you are--you are ashamed of loving me, Alfred?" she asked, quivering."No. But it is my wish. That should be enough."She was silent for a moment. "It is enough," she answered, slowly; "your wish shall be my law, in this as in all things. But you will take me  up to town, Alfred?" she pleaded. "You can go to the Blue Lion, to Steggall's, and tell them to drive you back to Liphook now. It will go down to my account, darling. You can take the quarter-to-one train from Liphook to London; it stops at Wit-

ley. I will be on the platform, and we will go on together." She ventured to stand now, and she held out her hands again, almost entreatingly."And you will say nothing to Sir William?""Alfred, you are my lord and master"--and she bowed her head on her breast. But he was wholly untouched. "Very well," he said, "I will drive back at once--there is not too much time--and meet you as you say. Good-by." He kissed her forehead, and, as before, swiftly drew back again."Will you order a wagonette for me too, Alfred?" she asked, as she followed him to the door; "I shall want one to take me to the station. Tell them to put it all down to me." He did not answer till the street door was open, and he saw the dark trees against the sky and the withered leaves beneath lying on the garden pathway. Then a smile crossed his lips; his face wore an air of relief, he looked like a free man. He crossed the threshold with a light step, and stopped and looked over his shoulder at her."Good-by," he said; "I will order the wagonette. It is lovely weather. We shall enjoy the journey to town.""My darling," she said, with a world of tenderness in her voice. "I shall enjoy anything with you as long as live." He looked at her for a minute, with the strange, dumb expression that was so peculiarly his own, and walked awayMrs. Baines went back to the drawing-room and shut the door with a manner that conveyed to the whole house that she wanted to be alone for a little space. She stood thoughtfully beside the chair on which he had sat. Suddenly she caught sight of her own face in the chimney-glass. She looked at it critically and winked slowly; she

pulled the white handkerchief up a little higher round her throat and turned away, satisfied. "He loves me," she said; "I know he loves me; and no power on earth shall separate me from him. I will marry him if I walk to church without my shoes. I was faithless once, but this time I will be true."  She crept softly up-stairs, and when she came down, an hour later, she was dressed and ready to depart. She went to the dining-room, where Florence, in despair, had had a little luncheon-tray brought in, with sandwiches and biscuits on it."My love," she said, "I have finished the preparations for my journey. Will you permit your servants to bring down my luggage? Steggall's man is coming immediately to drive me to the station. Thank you, but I do not need any refreshment.""Aunt Anne, I can't bear you to go," poor Florence said, entreatingly."I must go--I cannot stay," the old lady answered, solemnly; "and I beg you not to ask me to do so again.""But you will come back?""No, I cannot," Aunt Anne answered, in the same voice. "You did not mean it, but you cut me to the quick last night; I have had no sleep since, my love. I must go away; I want to be alone. Besides, I have private business to transact. Thank you for all your goodness and hospitality to me--yours and your dear ones'. It has been a great privilege to be with you and the dear children since Walter went away, and to come here to see your second home." She sat down for a moment by the buttery-hatch, turning a quick, sharp glance as she did so, to see that it was well closed, for one of her firm beliefs was that "servants were always ready to listen to the private speech of their employers."  As she seated her-

self, she looked as if she were trying to practise some of Mr. Wimple's firmness.But Florence knelt lovingly by the old lady's side, and put her pretty head down on the black merino dress. "I would not be unkind to you for the world," she said; "you know I would not." Mrs. Baines winked sorrowfully, but did not falter."You were very unkind. You hurt more than I can say," she said, coldly.Florence turned her lips towards the old lady's hands and kissed them. "Aunt Anne, dear," she said, very softly, "you have no money--"Mrs. Baines stiffened herself, her voice became polite and distant. "Thank you, my love, but I have sufficient to defray the expenses of my journey, and at the other end I shall be in a position to meet all demands upon my purse.""Let me lend you a little," Florence said, humbly."No, my love"--and Mrs. Baines shook her head; "I cannot take it."But Florence thought of the ten shillings that constituted all Aunt Anne's funds, and felt miserable."You could pay me back," she pleaded. "And don't be angry, dear Aunt Anne; but you told me how poor you were in that lodging last year and how cold--it makes my heart ache every time I think of it; and the winter and the cold are coming again. Oh, do stay here! You shall do anything in the world that makes you happy! I cannot bear to think of you in London--and it's unkind of you to go, for we shall miss you so much--the children and I." And she burst into tears.Then Aunt Anne melted."Florence," she said, tenderly, "that was like your dear self.""Then stay with us. You shall do as you like in all ways.""Thank you, my love; bless you for all your goodness. But I cannot stay. I love you, and I will believe that your heart feels for me in this great crisis of my life. You must not think that because I love him, I shall love you less--that would be impossible. But you must allow me to terminate my visit now. I want to be alone--to be in retirement for a little while; besides, I have, as I said just now, imperative business to transact in town. You must not ask me to prolong my time here, love.""Let me, at any rate, be a little useful to you, Aunt Anne. I know you are not rich."For a moment Aunt Anne was silent. Then she winked her loft eye very slowly, and looked up."Florence," she said, "I know that you always mean your words, and I should not like to hurt your generous heart. I will prove my affection for you by letting you lend me two sovereigns. Don't ask me to take more, my love, for it would be impossible. There--" and she gave a long sigh as she put the coins into her glove. "Now I hope you are satisfied. Remember, I only take them to prove my affection for you. Let me kiss those dear children"--and, quickly opening the door, she called them by their names, and laughed in an absent, excited manner as they came running down the stairs. "Come, my darlings," she said, "Aunt Anne is going away, and wants to say good-by.""But we don't want you to go," said Monty."We don't want you to go at all," echoed Catty."You dear children!" she exclaimed, "I must go, but I shall not forget you; and to-night when you look under your pillows you will find some chocolates as usual.

I have put them there, ready for you, so that some day you might remember that, even in the midst of her own happiness, Aunt Anne thought of you." She said the last words almost mechanically, while with one eye she watched her trunks being carried out, and with the other looked at the children. Suddenly she turned to Florence, "I should like to wish you good-by quite alone; there is something I must say to you." She turned quickly and entered the drawing-room. The fire had burned low, the room had grown chilly, and Florence shivered a little as she stood waiting for Aunt Anne to speak. "My dear," the old lady said, "will you try not to think me ungrateful for all your care of me--for all your solicitude for my happiness? I know you think that I am in my dotage--""Oh no--""That I am doing a foolish thing in marrying a man so much younger than myself; that--""You must do as you like, Aunt Anne. It is a free country, after all, and we can all do as we like.""Yes, my love," Mrs. Baines answered, with a sudden wink which showed that this was a new bit of argument to her, and one that she would try to use to her own advantage if she had the opportunity. "We can all do as we like--as you did when you married your dear Walter; as I shall when I marry Alfred Wimple--for, as you say, it is a free country.""I only hope you may be happy," Florence said, earnestly."Yes, my love," Mrs. Baines said, and her eyes filled with tears. "I hope so, too, and that I may make him happy." She was silent for a minute, and then it seemed as if what she said were forced from her. "I wanted to tell you," she began, with a little gasp--"I want you to

know something in my past life, so that you may better understand the reason of what I am doing. When I was a girl, Florence, a very true love was given to me. I won it heedlessly, and did not know its value; I played with it, and threw it away--a fresh young life like Alfred Wimple's. It was in my power to make him happy, but I made him miserable. He was taken ill and died. Sometimes I think that I am answerable to God for the loss of that life; had I acted differently, it might have been in the world now. I never had a young love offered to me since; I thought that it had been denied me as a punishment--for Mr. Baines's youth had gone when I married him; it was the marriage of his middle age. But, through all the years, I have not grown old; all things that have youth in them are precious to me. One reason why I love you all--you and Walter and the children--is that I am young, too, at heart. It is only the lines on my face that make me look old, and the years I can count that make me feel so. I am young still in all else." She stopped for a moment as if waiting for some response, but Florence could think of nothing to say; she only looked at the old lady wonderingly, and put her own hand on the nervous ones that rested on the chair-back. "I remember the night of your party," Mrs. Baines went on; "I thought of the past all the evening while I sat there--your guest, my darling; it came back again and again; it enveloped me, one year after another. I went on to the balcony, and all my dear ones who had gone gathered round me in the darkness. I heard your fresh young voices behind, but the years had set a mark on me that cut me off from you, and death had taken most of those I remembered, but left my heart young and longing for love--longing to live again just as you loved and as you lived. I said

to myself, 'I am old! I am old!' Alfred Wimple was standing by me and whispered, 'You are not old!' He was like my dead come back--like the one who had loved me when I was young; I felt as if through all the years I had been waiting by a dead man's side, and that now, perhaps, out of his life that loved me, this other had grown, or that God had sent him back into the world again to love me once more and to prove I was forgiven. Do you understand, Florence? I could not refuse the beautiful life that was laid at my feet; the love that has come to bless me once more after all the long years. We are young man and young woman to each other, Florence, and we love each other with all our hearts. It is like you and your dear Walter. I wanted to say this to you; I thought it would help you to understand, to sympathize with me. You cannot be sorry that I am going to be less lonely, or grudge me the love that will make my life happier. That is all, and now, my darling, I must go--and so, good-by once more."Florence could not speak; a lump had come to her throat."God bless you, Aunt Anne!" she said at last, with something almost like a sob."And God bless you, dearest Florence!" the old lady said, and she kissed her niece's face and stroked her head. "You know I always admire your hair, my love," she said, and, pulling Florence forward, she kissed it; then she went out to the wagonette. Jane held open the door. "This is for you," Mrs. Baines said, haughtily, and slipped a half-crown into the servant's hand; "there are some old slippers in my bedroom--I don't know if you will deem them worthy of your acceptance.""Thank you, ma'am," said Jane, unwillingly."I trust you will study your mistress's comfort and interests in every way," Mrs. Baines continued, as she put a shawl over her knees, "and that you will be good to those dear children." The next moment she was on her way to Witley Station.CHAPTER XIIIPORTSEA PLACE, Connaught Square, is composed of very small houses, most of which are let out in apartments. It was to one of these that Mrs. Baines drove on her arrival in town. Her two canvas-covered boxes, carefully corded, were on the top of the cab, her many small packages piled up inside. Mr. Wimple was not with her. He had left her at Waterloo Station, but it had been arranged that he was to see her later on in Portsea Place, and that if she failed to take rooms there she was to leave a message where she was to be found."Well, Mrs. Hooper," she said to the landlady, smilingly, but with the condescending air of a patroness, "you see I have not forgotten you, and if your rooms are still at liberty I should like to inspect them again.""Yes, ma'am, certainly; they are at liberty," said Mrs. Hooper, who felt convinced that, in spite of the shabby cloak with a steel clasp, the spare old lady must be some grand personage in disguise. "I shall be only too glad if they please you."Mrs. Baines inspected them carefully. Two little rooms on the drawing-room floor--a bedroom and a sitting-room. She looked at the pictures; she winked at herself in the looking-glass; she gently shook the side-table, to see if it were rickety. She tried the springs of the easy-chair, and the softness of the sofa-cushions. She asked if the chimney had been properly swept, and whether there was a draught from the windows."I think a guinea a week is an ample rent, Mrs. Hooper, considering that it is not the season," she said. "However, I will take the rooms for a week.""I don't usually let them for so short a time--" the landlady began, meekly."I might not require them for longer," answered Mrs. Baines, imperiously; "but I can make them suit my purpose for a week.""Very well, ma'am"--and Mrs. Hooper gave way, over-awed by Aunt Anne's unflinching manner; "would you like a fire lighted?""Certainly, and at once; but first, will you be good enough to have the luggage carried in? And tell the cabman to wait--he can drive me to Portman Square. There will be a gentleman here to dinner to-night.""I didn't think you would want late dinner, ma'am--ladies so often have tea and something with it--and company the first night--" but the landlady stopped, with a little dismay in her voice, for Mrs. Baines looked displeased."I am accustomed to dining late," she said, distantly, feeling acutely the superiority of her own class, "and I have frequent visitors. Cabman, will you put those boxes into the bedroom; and be careful not to knock the walls. Men are so often careless," she said, with a smile, to the landlady that completely subjugated her, "and it is so very annoying to have one's place injured."Yes, ma'am, it is," Mrs. Hooper replied, gratefully; "if you will give your orders we will get in what you want for this evening, while you are gone to Portman Square." The address had evidently impressed her."I must consider for a moment"--and Aunt Anne sat down and was silent. Then she ordered a little dinner

that she thought would be after the heart of Mr. Wimple, and gave many domestic directions, and with, "I trust to you to make everything exceedingly comfortable, Mrs. Hooper," departed in the four-wheeled cab.Sir William Rammage lived in a big house in Portman Square. The windows looked dull, the blinds dingy, the door-step deserted. Half the square seemed to hear the knock which Mrs. Baines gave at the double door. A servant in an old-fashioned black suit appeared, with an air of surprise."Is Sir William Rammage at home?" Mrs. Baines asked. The man looked her swiftly up and down."Yes, ma'am.""I wish to see him"--and she walked into the wide stone hall before the servant could prevent her."It's quite impossible, ma'am," he said, firmly; "Sir William keeps his room, and is too ill to see any one.""You will be good enough to take him my card," Mrs. Baines said. "If he is able to do so, you will find that he will see me.""I'll take it to Mr. Boughton, ma'am," said the man, hesitatingly, for he, too, was overcome by the visitor's imperious manner; "he has been with Sir William just now, and will know if it is possible for any one to see him.""Who is Mr. Boughton?" she asked, almost contemptuously."He is Sir William's solicitor.""Very well, that will do," said Mrs. Baines, and she was shown into a large, empty dining-room, that looked as grim and gloomy as the outside of the house had promised that all should be within. In a few minutes he returned."Mr. Boughton will be with you, directly, ma'am," he said, respectfully.In five minutes' time there appeared a little dried-up man, bald and shrewd-looking, but with a kindly expression in his pinky face."Mr. Boughton," Mrs. Baines said, "I am most glad to make your acquaintance"--and she shook hands. "Is it possible to see Sir William Rammage? He is my cousin, and we have known each other since we were children together.""Quite impossible, my dear madam, quite impossible," the lawyer answered, briskly."Is he very ill?""Very seriously ill.""Dear William!" the old lady said, tearfully, "I feared it was so. I knew him too well to suppose that he would leave my letters unanswered had it been otherwise.""If it is any business matter, madam, I am his confidential lawyer, and have been for thirty years.""Mr. Boughton, I am Sir William's own first cousin.""Indeed!" Mr. Boughton instantly became interested."Our mothers were sisters," Mrs. Baines went on, with deep emotion."Dear me, dear me," answered the lawyer, thoughtfully."When we were children we were rocked in the same cradle--""Most touching, I am sure"--he appeared to be turning something over in his mind."I know that he has a sincere affection for me, but of late years he has been so frequently indisposed that he has not been able to show it as he wished.""Frequently the case, my dear lady, frequently the case," Mr. Boughton said, soothingly. "May I ask you

to tell me what other members of his family survive? I am a little uncertain in the matter.""Mr. Boughton, I am his mother's sister's child and the nearest relation he has in the world. The others have been dead and gone these many years. There may be some distant cousins left, but we have never recognized them.""I understand," he said, "most interesting. And you wish to see him on family business, I presume?""I did," she replied."I am sorry to refuse you, my dear lady, but I am afraid he is too ill to see you.""I am not rich," Aunt Anne began, and her voice faltered a little, "and he promised to make me an allowance.""He has never done so yet?""No," she said, sadly, "he has had it under consideration. Perhaps he was reflecting what would be an adequate sum to defray my necessary expenses.""Perhaps so," Mr. Boughton said, thoughtfully. "If you will excuse me one moment, I will see if by any possibility my client can see you"--and he left the room.But in a few minutes he returned."It is quite out of the question," he explained--"quite. I don't wish to distress you, but I fear that our friend is much too ill to attend to his worldly affairs.""I have been waiting many months for his decision," the old lady said, with a world of pain in her voice; "it has been most difficult to maintain my position.""Quite so, quite so, my dear lady, and I feel sure that Sir William would wish this matter to be attended to without delay. I think I understand you to be the daughter of his mother's sister--""His dear mother's sister Harriet.""Quite so"--and Mr. Boughton nodded approvingly.

"Well, my dear lady, suppose I take it upon myself, having the management of his affairs for the present, to allow you just a hundred a year, say, till he is able to settle matters himself. Would that enable you to await his recovery or--"A little lump came into Aunt Anne's throat, a slow wink of satisfaction to her left eye; her voice was unsteady when she spoke. "Mr. Boughton," she said, "I know Sir William will be mast grateful to you. My circumstances must have been the cause of much anxiety to him.""Then we will consider the matter arranged until he is in a condition to attend to it himself, or-- By the way, perhaps you would like to have a check at once?""Perhaps it would be advisable," Aunt Anne said, but she seemed unable to go on. Try to conceal it as she would, the sudden turn in her fortune was too much for her."You must forgive me," she said, gently, sitting down, "I have had a journey from the country, and I am not so young as I was years ago." She looked up with a little smile, as if to belie her words."Of course," answered Mr. Boughton, feelingly, "age is a malady we all inherit if we live long enough. Let me get you a glass of wine; there is some excellent port in the sideboard"--and in a moment he found a decanter, and having filled a glass, handed it to her. But she shook her head, while she looked up at him gratefully."You must forgive me," she said; "port-wine is always pernicious to me." But he persuaded her to take a little sip, and then the glass was set down beside her while he wrote the check."You will tell dear William," she said, "when he is well enough, with what solicitude I think of him. And, Mr. Boughton, you must permit me to say how much in-

debted I feel to your courtesy and to the consideration with which you have treated me."Five minutes later Mrs. Baines was walking along Portman Square feeling like a woman in a dream, or a millionaire carrying his entire capital. She bought some flowers to put on the little dinner-table, and two little red candle-shades, for, with characteristic quickness, she had noticed the old-fashioned plated candlesticks on the mantelpiece, and remembered that gas above the table was unbecoming; and then she bought a yard or two of lace to wear round her throat, feeling a little ashamed, yet happy, while she did so. She thought of her lover, and looked longingly round the shop, but there was nothing that even she could imagine would be an acceptable present to a man."Welcome, my darling," she said to Alfred Wimple, when he arrived, an hour or two later. "This is the first time I have had the happiness of receiving you in a place of my own. I trust our repast will be ready punctually.""How is Sir William Rammage?" he asked."In a most precarious condition.""No better?""From what I could gather, Alfred, he must be worse"--and she winked solemnly."Whom did you see?""I saw a solicitor--Mr. Boughton.""That's my uncle. And he said he was worse?""He was so ill, Alfred, that Mr. Boughton even paid me my quarter's income out of his own pocket." A little smile hovered on Mr. Wimple's face."You didn't say anything about me?""No, my darling, you had desired me not to mention your name, and that was sufficient.""And he paid you out of his own pocket?""Yes, my love; he was most anxious that I should not be inconvenienced--but our repast is ready. Come"--and she motioned him to the place opposite her, and, with happy dignity, went to the head of the table. "I hope you will do it justice."Mr. Wimple ate his dinner with much solemnity. He always accepted his food as if it was a responsibility that demanded his most serious attention. Presently he looked at her across the dinner-table--at the lace about her throat; at the little crinkly gold brooch which Florence had seen first, years before, at Rottingdean; at the lines and wrinkles that marked the tender old face; at the thin white hands with the loose skin and the blue veins--but no expression came into his dull, full eyes. When the meal was over he got up and stood by the fireplace."My dear one," she said, "are you tired with the journey?""No.""Did you find your rooms quite comfortable and ready for you?" she asked, and went over to his side."Yes," he answered, with a little gulp peculiar to him. He seemed to be considering something of which he was uncertain whether to speak or be silent. But he kept his eyes fixed full upon her."Are they in the Gray's Inn Road, dear Alfred?""Near there," he said, and his lips closed. For a minute he was silent. Her eyes dropped beneath his gaze; she seemed to be trembling; and fragile, oh so fragile! a little gust of wind might have swept the slight, thin form away. He opened his lips to speak, but no sound came from them."You are so thoughtful," she said, gently. "I have not vexed you?""No"--and there was a long pause. Then he spoke again."Anne," he said, and went a little farther from her, "I think, perhaps, it would be as well if we were married at once." The tears came into her eyes; her mouth twitched; there was a pause before she found nerve to speak."My dear one," she said, "is it really true that all your heart is mine, are you sure, dear Alfred?""Yes," he answered, in a voice he tried to make gentle, but that, oddly enough, sounded half defiant, "I told you so last night.""I know," she answered, "only I have not deserved such happiness"--and the tears stole down her cheeks. "I have lived so long alone, my darling; but all my life is yours, Alfred, all my life, and the truest love that woman can give I will give you." She clasped her hands while she spoke; she seemed to be making the promise before some unseen witness to whom she owed account of all her doings.A week later Alfred Wimple and Mrs. Baines were married from the little lodging in Portsea Place. It was a sensation in Mrs. Hooper's monotonous life. She would have laughed and made fun of the wedding, but that Aunt Anne's dignity almost forbade a smile. The old lady seemed to be in a dream, the beginning of which she hardly remembered--to be living through the end of a poem, the first part of which she had learned in her youth. Her poor weak eyes looked soft and loving, and the bright smile that came and went about her mouth had something in it that was pathetic rather than ridiculous. She had conjured a gray wedding-dress from somewhere and a gray bonnet to match, but the cold caused her to wrap herself round in the big cloak she always wore. She pulled

on her gloves, which were large and ill-fitting, and stood before the glass, looking at herself, but all the time her thoughts were straying back to forty years ago. If only time could be conquered and its cruel hand held back--if flesh and blood could change as little as sometimes do the souls they clothe, how different would be the lives of men and women. The woman who went down the stairs was old and wrinkled outwardly, but within she was as full of tenderness as any girl of twenty going forth to meet her lover. She stepped into the four-wheeled cab alone; the biting wind swept maliciously over her face; and, quickly, she pulled up the window. It was only a little way to the church. It stood in the middle of an open space. She started when she caught sight of it, then turned away her head for a moment with a strange dread. Her courage almost gave way as she stopped before the deserted doorway. Alfred Wimple heard her arrive and came to meet her, with the hesitating, half-doubtful look that his face always wore when he was with her. There was no tenderness in his manner; there was something almost like shame. But he seemed as one impelled by fate and unable to turn back. The old lady's heart was full; the tears came into her eyes. She took his arm, and together they walked up the empty aisle. The two odd people who had been pressed into service as witnesses came forward; the clergyman appeared; he looked for a moment at the couple before him, but it was no business of his to interfere, and slowly he began the service.A quarter of an hour later Aunt Anne and Alfred Wimple were man and wife."I think we had better walk back," were the first words he said to her when they were outside. His manner was almost cowering, little enough like a bridegroom."My darling, don't you think people would guess?" she whispered."You need not be afraid. We don't look much like a wedding-party," he answered, grimly."No, my love, I fear not. But you do not mind? I feel, my darling, as if I could not have borne it if there had been more signs of our joyousness. It is too sacred--""I hope there will be some sunshine at Hastings," he said, as if he did not in the least understand what she was talking about. He had hardly listened to her."I hope so, my darling," she answered, gently, "and in your life, too. I will try and put it there, Alfred." He turned and looked at her, with an expression that seemed half shame and half gratitude."It will be warmer at Hastings," he said, as if at a loss for words. Aunt Anne had arranged a honeymoon trip. It was she who made all the arrangements, and he who reluctantly consented to them. They were to go to Hastings by a late afternoon train, stay there a few days, and then return to town; but everything was vague beyond. "It will be better to wait," Wimple said, when she wanted to settle some sort of home. "I must consider my work, Anne. I cannot be tied down. You must understand that."There was a little wedding-breakfast set out in the drawing-room. A cold chicken and a shape of jelly, and a very small wedding-cake, with some white sugar over it, put almost shyly on one side. In the middle of the table was a pint bottle of champagne. The gold foil over the cork made the one bright spot in the room, and gave it an air of festivity. A cheerless meal enough on a winter's day, but not for worlds would Aunt Anne have had an ordinary one on such an occasion. And so they sat down

to their cold chicken and the cheap, stiff jelly; and Alfred Wimple opened the champagne; and Aunt Anne, quick to see, noticed that he gave her three quarters of a glass and drank the rest himself, and she felt that she was married, indeed."Bless you, my dear one, bless you!" she said, as she always did, when she raised her glass to her lips; "and may our life be a happy one!""Thank you," he answered, solemnly--and then, as if he remembered what was expected of him, he drank back to her."Good health, Anne, and good luck to us!" he said.The meal ended, the things were taken away by Mrs. Hooper herself, and they were left alone.Mr. Wimple loitered uneasily round the room."I think we must go to Hastings by a later train," he said; "I shall have to get to my chambers presently.""Must you go to-day?" she asked, meekly."Yes," he answered, "I sha'n't be long, but there are some things I must see to.""Couldn't I go with you, Alfred--in a cab?""No"--and his lips locked."Are the rooms in the Gray's Inn Road?" she asked, again."They are near there," he said, once more; he looked at her steadfastly, and something in his eyes told her that he did not mean to give her the address. For a few moments there was silence between them. He stood on the hearth-rug by the fire--she a few paces from him, seemingly lost in thought. Suddenly she looked up."Alfred, my darling," she cried, sadly, "you do love me, do you not? You seem so cold to me to-day--so reserved and different. I have taken this great step for

you, but you have not said a tender word to me since we returned from the church--yet this is our wedding-day"--and she stopped."I am not well, and it's so cold," he said; "and I am worried about money matters, Anne.""I will take care of you," she said, and stood up beside him, "and nurse you and make you strong; I will study your every wish. If I had millions of money they should all be yours, my darling; I should like to spread out gold for your feet to walk on.""I believe you would," he said, with something like gratitude in his voice, and he stooped and kissed her forehead. Even this meagre sign of affection overcame her; she put her head, thankfully, down on his shoulder and let it rest there a minute from sheer weariness and longing. He put his arms round her and his face touched her head, as a man caresses his mother. Still, for a moment the weary old heart found rest."You are all my world," she whispered. "I'm not good enough for you, Anne," he said, uneasily. Then she raised her head and the bright smile came back."Oh yes," she said, joyfully--"much too good. It shall be the study of my life to be good enough for you. My darling," she broke out, suddenly, "I have a wedding-present for you; you must have thought me very remiss in not giving you one already.""I have nothing for you," he answered. But she did not hear him. She was fumbling in a travelling-bag at the end of the room. Presently she came back with a large, old-fashioned gold watch."This belonged to my brother John, who died," she said. "I want you to wear it in memory of this day.""It's a very handsome watch," he said; "I never saw it before--where has it been?"She was silent for a moment, and her left eye winked."My love," she said, "I had it kept in a place of safety till I required it"--and he asked no more questions.He put on his great-coat to go out; but he hesitated by the door, and half reluctantly came back. "Anne," he said, "even if we have no money, we ought to be prudent and business-like; I meant to have told you so yesterday.""Yes, my darling," she said, half wonderingly."People usually sign their wills on their wedding-day. You see, I am not strong and may die"--and he looked at her keenly."Yes, my love; or I might die, which would be far more natural.""I have made a will, leaving you all I have. How do you wish to leave anything that you possess?""To you, of course, Alfred--everything I have in the world.""I don't wish to influence you," he said, "but I thought you might wish to make your will in substance the same as mine. So, after I left you yesterday, I had them both drawn up. They are in my great-coat pocket now; we might as well get them signed and done with. The land-lady and the servant will witness them." He produced the two deeds from his pocket, and Mrs. Hooper and the servant were called."Alfred," Aunt Anne said, when they were alone again, and she had read over the documents, "your name is in my will, but in yours you only say you 'leave everything to my wife.'""Surely that is sufficient," he said, shortly."Of course, dear, for I am"--the voice dropped as almost a flush came upon the withered cheek, "your wife now."Mr. Wimple put his lips together again, after his favorite manner, and said nothing. She watched him curiously; a little fear seemed to overtake her; her hands, half-trembling, sought each other. "Have I displeased you, Alfred," she asked, gently; "my darling, have I displeased you?""No," he answered, dryly; "but I am not very sentimental, Anne. Perhaps you had better remember that"--and he put the wills carefully into his pocket. We will go by the 5:35 train. By the way, you might meet me at the station"--and he looked at her steadfastly."If you do not come back for me I shall not go at all"--and something like an angry flash came from her eyes. He hesitated a moment."Very well," he answered, "I will come back for you." She watched him go down the stairs; she listened while he opened the street door and closed it, and to his footsteps growing fainter along the pavement outside. Then she went back into the little drawing-room and shut herself in, and put her head down on the lumpy sofa-cushion, and sobbed with bitter disappointment and the hopelessness that had suddenly opened itself out before her.CHAPTER XIVSix months later. Walter was back in England, better in health, brown and handsome. Florence was in a seventh heaven of happiness. Her husband was her very devoted lover; the children were as good as gold; the little house near Regent's Park was decorated with all manner of Indian draperies and bric-à-brac--what more could the heart of woman desire?"Really," she said, "it was worth your going away to know the delight of getting you back again.""Yes, darling; shall I go away again?""No, you dear stupid! Walter, why doesn't Mr. Fisher come and see us; he has only been once since you returned, and then he seemed most anxious to go away again.""I suppose he was afraid Ethel Dunlop would come in.""I wish he hadn't fallen in love with her," Florence said; "I shall always reproach myself about it. But, really, he was so good and kind that I half hoped she would like him.""A woman under thirty doesn't marry a man because he is good and kind.""I can't help thinking it might have been different if he had spoken to her," Florence said; "it is so stupid of a man to write. I wouldn't have accepted you if you had proposed in a letter.""Oh, wouldn't you?" he laughed; "that was a matter in

which you wouldn't have been allowed to decide for yourself. One must draw the line somewhere. It is all very well to let women do as they like in little things; but in a big one like marrying you, why--""Don't talk nonsense," Florence laughed, putting her hand over his mouth. He kissed it, and jerked back his head."I wonder what Fisher said in his letter, Floggie?""I should think it was very proper and respectful.""The sort of letter a church-warden or an archbishop would write. Poor chap! I expect he feels a little sore about it.""I wish he would come here again," Florence said; "he was so very kind about taking the house, and I always liked him.""I am afraid," Walter said, with a sigh, "he hasn't quite forgiven me for putting Wimple on to him. It really was a ghastly thing for The Centre to get reviews from other papers palmed off on it as fresh ones. I can't think, setting aside the lowness of cheating, how Wimple could be such a fool as to suppose that Fisher wouldn't find out that they had been prigged.""He was quite taken in at first. I remember his telling me that Mr. Wimple wrote very well."" You see, those Scotch papers are uncommonly clever. How Wimple expected not to be found out I can't imagine. If he had prigged from the Timbuctoo Journal,of course he might have escaped. Fisher must have sworn freely. It made him look such an ass"--and Walter laughed, in spite of himself."Is there a Timbuctoo Journal?" Florence asked, innocently."No, you sweet idiot--perhaps there is, though. Should

think it would be interesting. Probably gives an account of a roast-missionary feast now and then.""You horrid thing!" said Florence. "I wish Mr. Wimple were in Timbuctoo, and that I knew how poor Aunt Anne was getting on.""Poor, dear old fool!--we never dreamed what would come of that introduction, either, did we?""Oh, Walter, I shall never forget what I suffered about her at the cottage when she told me she was going to marry Mr. Wimple. And then, after she had vanished, there were the bills at Witley and Guildford. I can't imagine what she did with all the things she bought, for she was only at the cottage a week or so without me.""Probably she sent them to Wimple at Liphook.""She couldn't send him chickens and claret, and cakes and chocolate, and a dozen other things.""Oh yes, she could--trust her," laughed Walter. "It is very odd," he went on, "but I have always had an idea, somehow, that there was a feminine attraction at Liphook. If it was the young lady we saw with him that morning at Waterloo Station, I don't think much of her. How did you manage to pay all the bills, Floggie dear? You didn't owe a penny when I came back, and had saved something too--I never knew such a frugal little woman.""Steggall's bill was the worst," Florence said, "there were endless wagonettes.""Probably she spent her time in slowing Wimple the beauties of the country. How did you manage to pay them all, Floggie.""Lived on an egg one day, and nothing the next.""That's what a woman always does. A man would have robbed Peter to pay Paul. You ought to have a

reward. It is too cold at Easter, but if I could get away for a fortnight this Whitsuntide we might take a run to Monte Carlo.""Monte Carlo makes me think of Mrs. North. I should like to see her again; she fascinated me that time she was here.""Why didn't you go and see her?""I was not sure that you would like it. There was evidently something wrong."He was silent for a few minutes. "Do you know," he said, presently, "when there is something wrong with a woman I think it is a reason for going, and not for staying away. It's the only chance for setting it right. What is the use of goodness if it isn't used for the benefit of other people?""Walter," Florence said, and she stood up and clasped her hands--" she said nearly the same thing to me that evening she was here. There was something almost desperate in her manner; it has haunted me ever since; and I should have gone to see her but that I was afraid of your being angry.""What, at your going to see a woman who perhaps needed your help? If she were up a moral tree, you might have done her some good.""I can't bear to think I missed a chance of doing that. Walter," she added, with a sigh, "sometimes I fear that I am very narrow.""No, dear, you are only a little prim Puritan, and I love you for it as I love you for everything; so please, Floggie, will you take me to Monte Carlo this Whitsuntide, or may I take you?""You are a wicked spendthrift," she laughed--"as bad as Aunt Anne; I believe it runs in the family. What

is to be done with the children while we go to Monte Carlo?""We'll leave them with the mother-in-law.""I wish you wouldn't call my mother that horrid name.""I thought it would make you cross," he laughed. "I say, I really do wish we knew what had become of the Wimples.""I think they must be all right, somehow," Florence said, "or else--""Or else she would have arrived to borrow a five-pound note. I wonder how Wimple likes it. Well, darling, I must be off to the office. It's all agreed about Whitsuntide, then, Fisher permitting.""Go away," Florence laughed; "go to the office, you bad person.""Very well, I will," he said, in a patient voice; "but I really do wish Aunt Anne would turn up. I want some more scissors; I lost all those she gave me, and some one stole the case.""And Catty broke my little velvet pincushion. It is, clearly, time that she turned up."When Walter had gone, Florence thought of Mrs. North again. "It was rather unkind of me not to be nice to her, for she was generous to Aunt Anne," she said to herself. "I wonder whether I could go and call upon her now. I might explain that I never dared to mention Madame Celestine's bill."But she had no time any longer to think of Mrs. North, for there were the inevitable domestic matters to arrange; and then Ethel Dunlop came in, full of her engagement to George Dighton."I always imagined it was merely friendship," Florence said, thinking regretfully of the editor."Did you?" said Ethel, brightly. "We thought so ourselves for a long time, I believe, but we found out that we were mistaken. By the way, Florence, you can't think how good Mr. Fisher has been to us.""Mr. Fisher? Well, you don't deserve anything from him.""No, I don't. Still, it wasn't my fault that he proposed; I never encouraged him. How droll it was of him to come and pour out his troubles to you.""I think it was manly and dignified," Florence said; "it proved that he wasn't ashamed of wanting to marry you. Did he write a nice letter, Ethel?""Yes, very, I think.""How did he begin?""He began, 'My dear Miss Ethel,' and ended up, 'Yours very faithfully.'""I am afraid you did lead him on a little bit.""Indeed I did not. He asked me to come and see his mother when she had this house, and he was always here.""That was very nice of him," Florence said; "it shows that he is very fond of his mother.""Oh yes, it was very nice of him," Ethel answered, "and he is very fond of his mother; but I found that he generally came a little before I did, and he always saw me home. I couldn't refuse to let him do so, because he seemed to think it a matter of duty to see that I arrived safely at my own street door. Middle-aged men always seem to think that a girl must get into mischief the moment she is left to her own devices.""How did he know of your engagement?""I wrote and told him. He had been so kind that I felt it was due to him. I told him we should be as poor as church mice, as George would be in a govern-

ment office all his life, with little to do and less to spend, after the manner of those officials; and he wrote back such a nice letter, inquiring into all our affairs and prospects--you would have thought he was our god-father, at least.""He does that sort of thing to everybody," Florence said; "he is astonishingly kind. He always seems to think he ought to do something for the good of everyone he knows.""Perhaps he mistakes himself for a minor providence, and goes about living up to it.""Oh, Ethel!""And then," Ethel went on, altogether ignoring the slightly shocked look on her friend's face, "he said that, perhaps, a word might be put in somewhere and something done for George. He didn't say any more, but I gathered that cabinet ministers occasionally range themselves round a newspaper office, seeking whom they may oblige.""Oh, Ethel!" exclaimed Florence again, "that is just your little exaggerated way.""Well, at any rate, he thinks he can do something, and he evidently wants to be good to us.""He seems to delight in doing kind things," Florence answered; "you know how good he was about Walter.""He ought to have married Mrs. Baines. He would have been much better than Alfred Wimple"--with which wise remark Ethel went away, full of her own happiness, and Florence sat down and thought over Mr. Fisher's generosity."He is always doing kind things," she said to herself. "It was he who sent Walter to India, and perhaps set him up for the rest of his life; and he who gave that horrid Mr. Wimple work, only to find himself cheated and

insulted in return. I can't think what I shall do whenever I meet Mr. Wimple." But she swiftly dismissed that disagreeable person from her mind, and returned to the consideration of Mr. Fisher's virtues. "He is so unselfish," she thought. "It isn't every one who would try to help on the man for whom he had been refused. Yet it is very odd that, with all his goodness, Mr. Fisher is not a bit fascinating; I quite understand Ethel's refusing him. I have an idea that few go out of their way to be good to him. Some people seem to live in the world to give out kindness, and others only to take it in." The reflection felt like a self-reproach. She did so little for others herself, and yet she was always longing to do more in life than merely to take her own share of its enjoyment. She wanted most to help Aunt Anne; she longed to see her, to comfort and soothe her, and perhaps to lend her a little money. She felt convinced that Aunt Anne must want some money by this time, and that she was miserable with Mr. Wimple. "I am so afraid he isn't kind to her," she said to herself; "I am certain he hasn't married her for love--there is some horrid reason that we are not clever enough to guess. I only wish she had never left Mrs. North; she was so happy there, and looked so grand driving about and giving presents; and perhaps if she had stayed she might, eventually, have been able to pay for them." Then, almost against her will, Mrs. North's face was before her again. She could see it quite plainly, lovely and restless, but with a sad look in the blue eyes that was like an appeal for kindness. "I feel as if there were an aching in her heart for something she has missed in life. But perhaps that is nonsense, or it is only that I don't understand her--we are so different. I have half a mind to go and call on her. I wonder if she would care to see me?"Some more hesitation, some curiosity and kindly feeling, and then Florence put on her prim little bonnet and her best furs, for she remembered Mrs. North's magnificent array and felt that it would not do to look shabby. She took the train from Portland Road to South Kensington, and walked slowly to Cornwall Gardens."I won't leave Walter's card," she thought, "or any cards at all if she is out; for, though I am glad to go and see her, I don't want to be on visiting terms."But Mrs. North was at home, and Florence was shown into a gorgeous drawing-room, all over draperies, and bits of color, and tall palms, and pots of lovely flowers. In the midst of them sat Mrs. North, a little lonely figure by a piled-up wood fire, for the early Spring day was cold and dreary. She rose as her visitor entered, and came just a step forward. She was lovelier than ever. With a cry of joyful surprise, she held out her hands to Florence."You!" she exclaimed. "Oh, Mrs. Hibbert, I never thought you would come and see me at all; but now--oh, it is good of you! Did you think how glad I should be?""I didn't know whether you would care to see me or not," Florence said, surprised at her delight."Care?" Mrs. North almost gasped, and Florence fancied that her lip quivered; "indeed I do, only no one--won't you sit down?"--and she made a cosey corner on a low couch, with a pile of soft, silk-covered cushions."I was so sorry not to be able to come and see you last year--""I quite understand," Mrs. North said, and the color rushed to her face. "I did not expect it.""You were so kind about Madame Celestine"--Flor-

ence went on, thinking that she, too, would have a heap of down cushions in her drawing-room, and not noticing Mrs. North's confusion--"and about all those dreadful bills.""Yes, I remember. Then you did not stay away on purpose?" Mrs. North leaned forward while she asked, and waited breathlessly for the answer."Why, of course not." Then a happy look came over the girlish face."And did you come now to tell me about Mrs. Baines? I should love to hear about her. Of course I knew she would not write. Was she very angry at my paying the bill?""Well, no--" and Florence hesitated."Do tell me. I don't in the least mind if she was. How furious she would be with me now, and how she would gather her scanty skirts and pass me by in scornful silence." Mrs. North laughed, an almost shrill laugh that seemed to be born of sorrow and pain. She was very strange, Florence thought, and her manner was oddly altered. "Do tell me," she asked again--"was she very angry?""I am ashamed to say that she never knew you had paid it.""You were afraid to tell her?""I never had a good opportunity.""It doesn't matter a bit. It saved her from being worried, poor thing!--that was the chief point. So long as a thing is done, it doesn't matter who does it--unless it's a bad thing. It matters then very much--especially to the person who does it," Mrs. North added, with a little bitter laugh. "The pain of it--" she stopped again, and went on suddenly, "Tell me more about Mrs. Baines. Where is she?""I don't know.""Have you not seen her lately?""Not for a long time.""But what has become of her?"Florence hesitated again. "I cannot tell you.""Dear lady!" said Mrs. North, her face merry with sudden fun. "You have not quarrelled with her? A Madonna doesn't quarrel, surely? Oh, how rude I am--but you will forgive me, won't you?" She got up from the other end of the couch and rang the bell. "Bring some tea," she said to the servant, "and quickly.""Don't have tea for me, please--" Florence began."Oh yes, yes," Mrs. North said, entreatingly. "I feel, dear Mrs. Hibbert, that we are going to talk scandal--therefore we must have tea, I have had enough scandal lately," she added, with a sigh, "but still when it isn't about one's self it is so exhilarating, as Mrs. Baines would have said; now, please, go on.""Go on with what?"Mrs. North pulled out her little perfumed lace handkerchief and twirled it into a ball in her excitement."About Mrs. Baines. There is some exciting news--I know it; I feel it in the air, Ah, here's the tea! I will pour it out first, and then, while we drink it, you must tell me all about her. Some sugar and cream?--there, now we look more cosey. Where is the old lady? What have you done with her? You have not locked her up?" she asked, demurely."No," laughed Florence, thinking how good the tea was, and how pretty were the cups and the little twisted silver spoons. "I have not locked her up.""And you have really not quarrelled with her?""No," answered Florence, a little doubtfully. "Though

I sometimes fear that she is angry with me for what she called my lack of sympathy. Really, Mrs. North, I don't know how to tell you; but the fact is, she is married again.""No, no?" cried Mrs. North. "Oh, it's too lovely! And who is the dear old gentleman?""It's a young one," Florence laughed, for she could not help being amused. "I don't know if you ever saw him--Mr. Wimple?" Mrs. North rocked to and fro, with wicked delight, till the last two words came; then she grew quite grave."Oh, but I am sorry," she said, "for I have seen him; and he didn't look nice; he looked--rather horrid.""I am afraid he did," Florence answered, regretfully."Do tell me all about it"--but the only account that Florence was able to give did not satisfy Mrs. North. "You must have seen something of the love-making beforehand?" she said."I am afraid I saw nothing of that either," Florence explained, "for I was in London, and she was at the cottage.""I thought she liked him when she was here," Mrs. North said; "but, of course, I never dreamed of her being in love with him. She used to meet him and go to contemplate the Albert Memorial. Sometimes, when I was out alone, I drove by them; but I pretended to be blind, for I did not want to invite him here--he was so unattractive. He called once, but I did not encourage him to come again. I would give anything to see them together. If I knew where she lived, I would brave everything, and call upon her, though she probably wouldn't let me in."Then Florence began to be a little puzzled. What did Mrs. North mean? Had she done anything--anything

bad? Almost without knowing it she looked up and asked, "Is Mr. North quite well?" the color flew to Mrs. North's face again."Oh yes, I suppose so," she answered, coldly. "Naturally I don't inquire after his health.""You had had a telegram last time I saw you--""I remember--" it was said bitterly. "I wondered why he was coming so suddenly.""I thought perhaps he was at home still?""At home? He may be. I don't know where he is. I have not the least idea. It is no concern of mine.""Then he did not return after all?" Florence said, bewildered. Mrs. North looked at her for a moment in silence. Then she got up and stood leaning against the mantelpiece, which was covered with flowers and bric-à-brac."Mrs. Hibbert," she said, and it seemed as if her lips moved reluctantly, but she showed no other sign of emotion--"you know what has happened to me, do you not?""No," answered Florence, breathlessly, and she stood up, too. Mrs. North glanced quickly at the door, almost as if she expected to see her visitor flee towards it."Mr. North divorced me," she said, very slowly."I didn't know," Florence answered, and began to put on her glove."I thought you didn't," and there came a bitter little laugh. "I knew you didn't; and yet, deep down in the bottommost corner of my heart, I hoped you did.""You must forgive me for saying that, if I had, I should not have come, though I am very, very sorry for you.""As a judge is when he sends a prisoner into solitary confinement, or to be hanged, and turns away to his own comfortable life?" Florence buttoned her glove. "And

you will never come and see me again, of course?" she added, with another little burst."I do not think I can," Florence said, gently."I don't want you," Mrs. North answered, quickly, while her checks burned a deeper and deeper red. "It was only a test question.""I am very sorry for you," Florence said again, "very, very. You are so young; and you seem to have no one belonging to you. But there are some things that are impossible, if--""Oh, I know," burst out Mrs. North again; "I know. My God! and this is a Christian country--yes, wait," she said, for she fancied Florence was going. "I know you are kind and gentle, and you are--good," she added, almost as an after-thought; "and you and the women like you try very hard to keep your goodness close among yourselves, and never to let one scrap of it touch women like me. Tell me," she asked--"did you marry the man you loved best in the world?""Yes," Florence answered, unwillingly, afraid of being dragged into an argument."Then you have never known any temptation to do wrong. Where does the merit of doing right come in?""I would rather not discuss it," Florence said, gently but coldly."Oh, but let me speak--not for my own sake, for I shall be strong enough to make some sort of life for myself after a time; but for the sake of other women who maybe in my position and judged as you judge me. My mother died when I was sixteen; when I was eighteen I was persuaded to marry a man old enough to be my father. After a time he grew tired of me. I suppose I wasn't much of a companion to him. He went abroad and left

me alone, again and again. At first my sister was with me; she married and went away. Mrs. Baines came a little while before that--" she stopped, as if unable to go on without some encouragement."Yes?" Florence said, listening almost against her will."And I was young and inexperienced. How could I know the danger in so many things that amused me? At last I fell in love; I had been so lonely, I was so tired, and I had never loved any one in my whole life before.""But you knew that it was wrong. You were married.""Oh yes, but the paths of virtue had been deadly dull, and trodden with a man I did not love and whom I had been made to marry. The man I loved was young and handsome, and a soldier. The rest of the story was natural, even if it was wicked.""And then?" asked Florence, wonderingly."Then my husband came back, and there were the usual details. He heard something that sent him flying home to look after his honor. He had forgotten to look after mine--or my happiness.""And the man?""He had gone to India with his regiment. He telegraphed over, 'No defence,' and that was the end of it.""I hope he will come back and make you reparation.""He has not written me a line," Mrs. North said, and the tears came into her eyes for a moment--"not a word, not a sign. Perhaps he is dead--India is a country that swallows up many histories; or, perhaps," she added, desperately, "he, too, despises me now. People flee from me as if I had the plague," she added, with the bitter laugh again. "Oh, there are no people in the world who encourage wickedness as do the strictly virtuous.""Don't say that," Florence answered, "for, indeed, it is not true.""But it is," Mrs. North said, eagerly. "I have proved it: once do wrong, and men and women seem to combine to prevent you from ever doing right again. You can't make a Magdalen of me"--and she held out her hands. "I am young; I am a girl still; you can't expect me to go in sackcloth and ashes all my life--and that in solitude. I want to be happy; I am hungry for happiness.""I hope you will get some still, but--""How can I? Men shun me, unless they want to make me worse; and women fly from me, as if they feared their own respectability would vanish at the mere sight of me. It seems to be made of brittle stuff.""It is not that," Florence interrupted--"but a difference must be made; there must be some punishment--something done to prevent--""That is why so many women go on doing wrong," Mrs. North continued, as if she had not heard the interruption; "they cannot bear the treatment of that portion of the world which has remained unspotted or unfound-out. Oh, the cruelty of good women! I sometimes think that it is only the people who have sinned or who have suffered who really know how to feel.""That is not true--" Florence began, but still Mrs. North did not heed her."Do you know," she said, speaking under her breath, "I am so sorry for women now that I believe I could kneel down beside a wicked, drunken creature in a gutter, and kiss her, and bring her back, and be tender to her in the hope of making her better. For I understand not only the sin, but the pain and the misery, and the good people, and all else that have driven her there.""But some difference must be made--you cannot expect to be received as if people thought you now what they thought you once?""I know that," Mrs. North said, scornfully. "People can't ask me to their parties. I don't want to go to them. They may not want me for the friend of their daughters, though I should not harm them--" and she burst into tears."It isn't possible," Florence said, helplessly."But need men and women flee from me as if I were a leper? People who have known me for years, and might make me better, women especially, who might make me a little happier and ashamed of having done wrong. But no--no--they gather their skirts and do not see me as they pass, though a year ago they crowded here. They are waiting to hear that I am dead or have grown wickeder still. They would feel a sort of pleasure in hearing it, and feel glad they did not risk their spotless reputations by trying to prevent it.""I think you must let me go away," Florence said, gently, determined to end the interview."Oh yes, you had better go!"--and Mrs. North put the backs of her hands against her flushed cheeks to cool them. "My tea has not poisoned you, and I have not 'contaminated you,' as Mrs. Baines would say. If you ever think of me in the midst of your own successful life, believe this, that if I had had all that you have had, I might have been as good as you--who knows? As it is, I have my choice between isolation with a few breaths of occasional scorn, or the going farther along a road on which, no doubt, you think I am well started.""Please let me go," Florence said, gently, almost carried away by Mrs. North's beauty when she looked up at her

face, but feeling that she ought to stand by the principles that had been almost a religion to her. "This has been so painful, I am sure you must want to be alone.""Oh yes, it has been painful enough, but it has been most instructive also," Mrs. North said, and then she added, gently, "I think I would rather you go now. Yes, please go," she entreated, suddenly, while a sob choked her, and she dabbed her tears with her little lace handkerchief, vainly struggling to laugh again."I think it would be better," Florence said; "but perhaps some day, if I may--I will--" She stopped, for she felt that she ought to consult her husband before she promised to come again."Oh yes, I understand," Mrs. North said; "you will come again if you can; but if you don't, it will only increase my respect for goodness. I shall think how precious it is, how valuable--it has to be guarded like the Kohinoor. Good-by, Mrs. Hibbert, good-by."  She rang the bell and bowed almost haughtily, so that Florence felt herself dismissed."Good-by," the latter said, and slowly turned from the room. Somehow she knew that Mrs. North watched her until the door had half closed, and then threw herself, a little miserable heap, among the silk cushions. But she was half-way down the stairs before she realized this, and then the servant was waiting to show her out."Oh, I was cold and cruel," she thought, when the street door had closed behind her, "but I could not help it; there is no sin in the world that seems so awful as that one."CHAPTER XV"I CAN understand what you felt," Walter said, when he heard of Florence's interview with Mrs. North; "still, I wish we could do something for her.""It has made me miserable; but I don't quite see what we can do. We can't invite her here--who would come to meet her? As for my going to see her again, I would go willingly if I thought I should do her any good; but I don't think she would care about seeing me. She imagines I am good and disagreeable.""Poor Floggie! Perhaps you might write her a little letter, and then let it drop.""I'll wait till I hear some news about Aunt Anne; then I will write, and try and make my letter rather nice."This excuse was soon given her.Mrs. Burnett, Mr. Fisher's Witley friend, called to see Florence one afternoon."I thought perhaps you would come for a drive with me," she said; "it is lovely in the Park to-day--such beautiful sunshine.""It would be delightful," Florence answered, for she always liked Mrs. Burnett; "but I am afraid I must go to tea with a cousin in Kensington Gore. I promised to meet Walter there, and go for a walk afterwards.""Let me take you there, at any rate?""That would be very kind," Florence said, and in five minutes they were on their way."Have you seen Mr. Fisher lately?" Mrs. Burnett asked, as they drove across the Park."I saw him two or three weeks ago.""He has grown very grave and silent. I have an idea that he fell in love with a rather handsome girl who used to come and see his mother. I think she was a friend of yours, Mrs. Hibbert.""He doesn't look like a man to fall in love," Florence said, trying not to betray Mr. Fisher's confidence."Oh, but you never know what is going on inside people--their feelings are so often at variance with their appearance. My husband said once that he sometimes thought that people drew lots for their souls, for they so seldom matched with their bodies.""Perhaps they do, and for their hearts as well. It would account for the strange capacity some people have for loving, though you have only to look at them to see it is hopeless that they should be loved back again.""I know, and it is terrible that love should so often depend, as it does, on the chance arrangement of a little flesh and blood--for that is what beauty amounts to.""Oh, but we don't always love beauty.""No, not always," Mrs. Burnett answered; "but the shape of a face, for instance, will sometimes prevent our love going to a very beautiful soul.""And a few years and wrinkles will make love ridiculous or impossible," Florence said, thinking of Aunt Anne. Oddly enough, Mrs. Burnett evidently thought of her too, for she asked, "Has your aunt been at the cottage at Witley lately?""No," answered Florence; but she did not want to dis-

cuss Aunt Anne. "My children so often remember the donkey-cart," she said; "it was a great joy to them.""Oh, I'm very glad. When you go to Witley again, I hope you will use the pony.""What has become of the donkey?""We were obliged to sell it. It would not go at all at last. We are not going to Witley ourselves till July; so, meanwhile, I hope you will use the pony.  Only, dear Mrs. Hibbert, you won't let him go too fast uphill, for it spoils his breath; and we never let him gallop downhill, for fear of his precious knees.""I will be very careful," Florence said, rather amused."I'm afraid we don't let him go too fast, even on level ground," Mrs. Burnett laughed; "for he's a dear little pony, and we should be so grieved if he came to any harm.""Perhaps he would be safer always standing still," Florence laughed back."Oh, but he might catch cold then; but do remember, dear Mrs. Hibbert, when you are going to Witley, that you have only to send a card the night before to the gardener, and he will meet you at the station.""Thank you, only I should be rather afraid to use him for fear of accidents.""Oh, but you needn't be; and we are so glad to have him exercised. Perhaps Mrs. Baines would like to drive him? Why, we are at Kensington Gore already. It has been delightful to have you for this little drive. Good-by, dear Mrs. Hibbert."Walter was waiting for Florence at her cousin's. He gave her a sign not to stay too long."We so seldom get a walk together," he said, when they were outside, "that it seemed a pity to waste our

time under a roof. Let us get inside the Park;" and they crossed over."How lovely it is," Florence said, "with the tender green coming out on the trees. The brown boughs look as if they were sprinkled with it. And what a number of people are out. The Park is beginning to have quite a season-like look.""Do you remember how Aunt Anne used to come here and contemplate the Albert Memorial?" Walter asked. "By the way, Fisher was talking of Wimple to-day; he is very sore about him.""It was very vexing; I wish we had never seen him, don't you?""What, Wimple? I should think so! I asked Fisher if he knew the fellow's address; he says the last time he heard of him he was somewhere near the Gray's Inn Road. I wonder if she was with him.""Walter!" exclaimed Florence, and she almost clutched his arm, "I believe she is over there. Perhaps that is why she has been running in our thoughts all day."A little distance off, on a bench under a tree, sat a spare black figure, with what looked like a cashmere shawl pulled round the slight shoulders. Limp and sad enough the figure looked. There was an expression of loneliness in every line of it."It is very like her," Walter said. They went a little nearer; they were almost beside her; but they could not see her face, which was turned away from them."Oh, it must be she," Florence said, in a whisper. Perhaps she heard their footsteps, for the black bonnet turned slowly round, and, sure enough, there was the face of Aunt Anne. Thin and sad and woe-begone enough it looked."Aunt Anne! Dear Aunt Anne! Why have you left us all this time without a sign?" and Florence put her arms round the thin form."Aunt Anne! Why, this is good luck," Walter exclaimed."My dear Florence, my dear Walter," the old lady said, looking at them with a half-dazed manner; "bless you, dear children; it does me good to see you.""You don't deserve it, you know," said Walter, tenderly, "for cutting us.""It wasn't my fault, dear Walter," she answered; "you and Florence and the dear children have been constantly in my thoughts; but we have had many unavoidable anxieties since our marriage; besides, I was not sure that you desired to see me again.""Why, of course I did. But you don't deserve to see us again after leaving us alone all this long time. Where is Wimple?""He is at Liphook," she answered. "He is not strong, and finds the air beneficial to him.""It was always beneficial to him," Walter said, dryly."He ought not to leave you alone, dear Aunt Anne; you don't look well," Florence said."I am very frail, my love, but that is all. London air is never detrimental to me, as it is to Alfred. He finds that Liphook invigorates him, and he frequently goes there for two or three days; but, as our means are not adequate to defray the expenses of much travelling, I remain in town. Walter," she asked, looking up with a touch of her old manner, "did you enjoy your visit to India? I hope you have most pleasant recollections of your journey.""I'll tell you what, Floggie dear," Walter said, not answering Aunt Anne's question--"we'll take her back with us at once.""Oh no, my love," the old lady began; "it is impossible--""How can it be impossible?" Florence said, gayly; "you are evidently all alone in London; so we'll run away with you. The children are longing to see you, and I want to show you all the things Walter brought from India. There is a little ivory elephant for you.""It was just like him to think of me," the old lady said, with a flicker of the old brightness; but in a moment her sadness returned, and Walter noticed that there was almost a cowed expression on her face. It went to his heart, and gave him a mighty longing to thrash Wimple."You must come at once," he said, putting on an authoritative manner; "then you can tell us all your news, and we will tell you all ours. There, put your arm in mine, and Florence shall go the other side to see you don't escape.""He is just the same. He makes me think of his dear father," she said, as she walked between them; "and of that happy day at Brighton, years and years ago now, when I met you both on the pier. Do you remember, my dear ones?""Of course we do!" said Walter; "and how victoriously you carried us off then, just as we are carrying you off now.""Oh, he's just the same," the old lady repeated."Here's a four-wheeler," Walter said, as he stopped one. "This is quite an adventure; only," he added, gently, "you don't look up to much.""I shall be better soon," she said, and dropped into silence again. She looked, almost vacantly, out of the window as they went along, and they were afraid to ask her questions, for, instinctively, they felt that things had not gone well with her. Presently she turned to Florence. "Did you say the children were at home, my love?""Yes, dear." The old lady looked out of the window at the green trees in the Park, and almost furtively at the shops in Oxford Street. Then she turned to Florence."My love," she said, "I must take those dear children a little present. Would you permit the cabman to stop at a sweetmeat-shop? We shall reach one in a moment.""Oh, please don't trouble about them, dear Aunt Anne.""I shouldn't like them to think I had forgotten them, my love," she pleaded."No, and they sha'n't think it," Walter said, patting her hand. "Hi! stop, cabby. Stay in the cab; I'll go and get something for them." In a few minutes he re-appeared with two boxes of chocolates. "I think that's the sort of thing," he said. She looked at them carefully, opened them, and examined the name of the maker."You have selected them most judiciously, dear Walter," she answered."That's all right. Now we'll go on." She looked at the boxes once more and put them down, satisfied."It was just like you, to save me the fatigue of getting out of the cab," she said to her nephew. "I hope the children will like them; they were always most partial to chocolates. You must remind me to reimburse you for

them presently, my dear." And once more she turned to the window."Aunt Anne, are you looking for any one?" Walter asked, presently."No, my love, but I thought the cabman was going through Portman Square, and that he would pass Sir William Rammage's house.""That worthy was at Cannes the other day, I saw.""He is there till next month," she explained, and then they were all silent until they reached the end of their journey. It was impossible to talk much to Aunt Anne; it seemed to interrupt her thoughts. Silence seemed to have become a habit to her, just as it had to Alfred Wimple. She was a little excited when they stopped at the house, and lingered before the entrance for a moment. Almost sadly she looked up at the balcony on which she had sat with Alfred Wimple, and slowly her left eye winked, as if many things had happened since that happy night of which only she had a knowledge.They sat her down in an easy-chair, and gave her tea, and made much of her, and asked no questions--only showed their delight at having her with them again. Gradually the tender old face looked happier, the sad lines about the month softened, and once there was quite a merry note in her voice, as she laughed and said, "You dear children, you are just the same." Then Catty and Monty were brought in, and she kissed them, and patronized them, and gave them their chocolates, and duly sent them away again, just as she always used to do."I began to work a little hood for Catty," she said, "but I never finished it; it was not that I was dilatory, but that my eyes are not as good as they were."  She

said the last words sadly, and Florence, looking up quickly, wondered if they were dimmed from weeping."Poor Aunt Anne!" she said, soothingly; "but you are not as lonely as formerly?""No, my love, only Alfred has a great deal of work to do. It keeps him constantly at his chambers; and his health not being good, he is obliged to go out of town very often, so that, unwillingly"--and she winked sadly--"he is much away from me.""What work is he doing?" Walter asked."My dear," she said, with gentle dignity, "you must forgive me for not answering that question, but I feel that he would not approve of my discussing his private affairs.""Have you comfortable rooms in town?" Florence asked, in order to change the subject."No, my love, they are not very comfortable, but we are not in a pecuniary position to pay a large rent." She paused for a moment, and her face became grave and set. Florence, watching her, fancied that there was a little quiver to the upper lip."Aunt Anne, dear Aunt Anne, I am certain you are not very happy--tell us what it is. We love you. Do tell us--is anything the matter? Is Mr. Wimple kind to you? Are you poor?""Yes, do tell us!" Walter said, and put his arm round her thin shoulder, and gave it a little affectionate caress.She hesitated for a moment. "My dears," she said, gratefully, but a little distantly, "Alfred is very kind to me, but he is very much tried by our circumstances. He is not strong, and he is obliged to be separated from me very often. It causes him much regret, although he is too unselfish to show it.""But you ought not to be so very poor, if Mr. Wimple has lots of work," Walter said."I fear it is not very profitable work, dear Walter, and though I have an allowance from Sir William Rammage, it does not defray all our expenses"--and she was silent. Walter and Florence were silent, too.  They could not help it, for Aunt Anne had grown so grave, and she seemed to lose herself in her thoughts. Only once did she refer to the past."Walter, dear," she asked, "did you find my little gifts useful when you were away?" Aunt Anne always used to inquire after the wear and tear of her presents."Indeed I did," he answered, heartily. "I was speaking of them only to-day--wasn't I, Floggie?" But he concealed the fact that all the scissors were lost, lest she should want to give him some more."Aunt Anne," Florence asked, "isn't there anything we could do for you? You don't look very well.""The spring is so trying, my love," the old lady said, gently."I expect you want a change quite as much as Mr. Wimple.""Oh no, my love. I have been a little annoyed by my landlady, who was impertinent to me this morning. It depresses me to have a liberty taken with me." Perhaps the rent was not paid, Florence thought, but she did not dare to ask. Aunt Anne shivered and pulled her shawl round her again, and explained that she had not put on her warm cloak, as it was so sunny and bright, and the people in the Park might have observed that it was shabby; and while she was talking a really brilliant idea came to Walter."Aunt Anne," he exclaimed, "why should not you

and Wimple go to our cottage at Witley for a bit? Oh! but I forgot--he stays with friends at Liphook, doesn't he?""No, my love, he lodges with an old retainer.""Oh," said Walter, shortly, remembering a different account that Wimple had given him the year before, on the memorable morning when they met in the Strand."I think it would be an excellent thing, if you and he went to our cottage. It is standing empty; we don't want it just yet, and there you could be together." Aunt Anne looked up with keen interest."Yes, why not?" exclaimed Florence. "I wish you would. You would be quite happy there.""My love," said the old lady eagerly, "it would be delightful. But I'm afraid there are reasons that render it impossible for me to accept your kindness.""What reasons?--do speak out," Florence said, entreatingly, "because, perhaps, we can smooth them away.""Florence," said the old lady, "I must be frank with you. I am indebted to some of the tradespeople there, and I am not in a position to pay their bills.""They are all paid," Walter said, joyfully--"so don't trouble about them; and moreover, we told them that they were never to give us any credit, so I am afraid they won't give you any next time, any more than they will us, but you won't mind that.""And then, my love," the old lady went on, to Florence, "I have no servants.""I can arrange that," said Florence. "I can telegraph to Jane Mitchell, the postman's sister, who always comes in and does for us when we go alone, from Saturday to Monday, and take no servant. Do go, Aunt Anne; it will do you a world of good. I shall take you back

to your lodgings, and get you ready, and send you off to-morrow  morning." Aunt Anne stood up, excitedly."My dears," she said, "I will bless you for sending me. I can't bear this separation. I want to be with him, and he wants me--I know he does; it makes him cross and irritable to be away from me." There was almost a wild look in her eyes. They were astonished at her vehemence. But suddenly she seemed to remember something, and all her excitement subsided. "I cannot go until Sir William Rammage returns to town, or his solicitor does. My quarter's allowance is not due for some weeks, and unfortunately--""We'll make that all right, Aunt Anne; leave it to us," said Walter. "Florence will come round in the morning and carry you off, and Wimple will be quite astonished when you send for him." Aunt Anne looked up, almost gayly."Yes, my love, he will be quite astonished. You have made me happy," she added, with almost a sob; "bless you for all your goodness. Now, my dear ones, you must permit me to depart, I shall have so many arrangements to make this evening. Bless you for all your kindness.""I am going to take you back in a hansom," said Walter. And in a few minutes they were driving to the address she had given, a florist's shop in a street off the Edgeware Road."I think her rooms were on the top floor," Walter said to Florence, when he returned, "for she looked up at the windows with a mournful air when we arrived.   The house seemed neglected, and the shop had a dead-and-gone air; nothing in it but some decayed plants and a few stray

slugs. It is my opinion that she is left in a garret all by herself, poor dear; and that Wimple takes himself off to his chambers, or to his Liphook friends, and has a better time.""He's a horrid thing!""Floggie, do you know that he is our Uncle Alfred?" Walter asked, wickedly. She looked at him for a moment in bewilderment, then she understood."Walter," she said, "if you ever say that again I will run away from you. I shall go and write a line to Mrs. Burnett's gardener," she added, "and tell him to meet us with the pony to-morrow; she said I was to use it, and I think it would be good for Aunt Anne not to be excited by the sight of Steggall's wagonette. I am certain she is very unhappy.""I don't know how she could expect to be anything else," he answered. "Poor thing! what the deuce did he marry her for? There is some mystery at the bottom of it."Walter had divined rightly. Aunt Anne's lodging was at the top of the house. When he left her she went, slowly, up the dark staircase that led to it. On the landing outside her door were her two canvas-covered boxes, one on top of the other. She looked at them for a moment, half-hesitatingly, as if she were thinking of the journey they would take to-morrow, and of the things she must not forget to put into them. She turned the handle of the front-room door and walked in. Alfred Wimple was sitting by a cinder fire, over which he was trying to make some water boil. He looked up as she entered, but he did not rise from the broken cane-bottomed chair."Why did you go out, Anne?" he asked, severely, without giving her any sort of greeting."My dear one," she said, excitedly, going forward, "I did not dream of your being here; it is, indeed, a joyful surprise." She put her hands on his shoulder and leaned down. He turned his head away with a quick movement, and her kiss brushed his cheek near the ear; but she pretended not to see it. "When did you come, my darling?""Two hours ago," he said, solemnly, "and I wanted some tea.""I am so sorry, but I did not dream of your coming. Are you better, my dear one?" she tried to pull the fire together with the little poker."I am a little better," he answered. "You will never make the water boil over that fire.""Yes, I will"--and she looked into the coal-scuttle. "Have you come up to town for good, dear Alfred?" The scuttle was empty, but she found some little bits of wood and tried to make a blaze."I don't know; I am going back to my chambers presently to do a night's work.""And to-morrow?" she asked, anxiously."Perhaps you will see me to-morrow," he answered. "Can you give me something to eat? I wish you would make a decent fire.""I will, my dear one," she said; "if you will rest here patiently for a few minutes, I will go down-stairs and ask the landlady to let me have some coals.""I have no money," he said, sullenly--"understand that.""But I have, my darling," she answered, joyfully; "and I am quite sure you require nourishment. Will you let me go out and buy you a chop?""Give me some tea; I can get dinner on my way back.""Won't you stay with me this evening, Alfred? I have some news for you, and I have been so lonely." She looked round the shabby room, as if to prove to him how impossible it was to find comfort in it."No, I can't stay," he answered, shortly. "How much money have you got?""I have a sovereign. Walter slipped it into my glove just now. I have been to see them both, Alfred.""What did they say about me?""They spoke of you most kindly, my darling," she answered and winked, very timidly."Why couldn't he give you more?--a sovereign isn't much," Wimple said, discontentedly. "I see Rammage is not coming back from Cannes just yet," he added."My dear," she said, gravely, "you are fatigued with your journey and hungry, and it makes you unhappy. If you will excuse me a moment, I will make some little preparations for your comfort." And, with the dignity that always sat so quaintly upon her, she rose from the rug and left the room. She returned in a few minutes, followed by the landlady with a scuttleful of coals. Then she made some tea, and cut some bread and butter, and set it before Alfred Wimple, all the time putting off, nervously, the telling of her great bit of news. She looked at him while he ate and drank, and her face showed that she was not looking at the actual man before her, but at some one she had endowed with a dozen beauties of heart and soul: she wished he could realize that he possessed them; they might have given him patience and made him happier."Did you enjoy the country ?" she asked, gently."Yes"--he coughed uneasily--"but I was not well. I shall go there again soon.""What do you do all day?" she asked. "Have you any society?" he was silent for a moment, as if struggling with the destitution of speech that always beset him."I can't give you an account of all my days, Anne," he said, and turned to the fire."I did not ask it, Alfred; you know that I never intrude upon your privacy. I had some news," she went on, with a pathetic note in her voice, "and hoped it would be pleasing to you.""What is it?" the expression of his face had not changed for a moment from the one of sulky displeasure it had worn when she entered, and her manner betrayed a certain nervousness, as if she felt that he was with her against his will, and only by gentle propitiation could she keep him at all."Walter and Florence have offered to lend us their cottage at Witley. We can go to it to-morrow--if it is convenient to you, Alfred," she added, meekly."I shall not go there," he said, sullenly--and for a moment he looked her full in the face with his dull eyes."I thought the air of that locality was always beneficial to you," she said, in the same tone in which she had last spoken."Thank you, I don't wish to go to that 'locality,' and be laughed at." He half mocked her as he spoke."Why should you be laughed at?" she asked, with almost a cry of pain in her voice, for she knew what the answer would be, beforehand; but the words were forced from her--she could not help them. He coughed and looked at her again."People generally laugh at a young man who marries

an old woman, Anne." She got up and went to the end of the room, and came back again, and put her hand upon his shoulder."No one is there to laugh," she said. "There is no one there to know. We need not keep any society." She did not see the absurdity of the last remark, and made it quite gravely. "There are only a few people in the neighborhood at all, and those of an inferior class. It does not matter what they think.""It matters to me what every one thinks.""We cannot remain here much longer," she went on. "The landlady was most impertinent to-day. I think Florence and Walter would help to pay her if we went to the cottage to-morrow. They said they would arrange everything.""It is a long way from Liphook," he said, almost to himself; "if any one saw us, they wouldn't suspect that we were married. They would think you were my aunt, perhaps.""They may think what they please, Alfred," she answered, "if you are only with me." Then her voice changed. "My dear one, I cannot bear life unless you are gentle to me," she pleaded; "and I cannot bear it here alone any longer, always away from you, day after day. I am your wife, Alfred, and, if I am an old woman, I love you with all the years I remember, and all the love that has been stored up in me since my youth. I want to be near you to take care of you, to see that you have comforts. You can say that I am your aunt, if it pleases you. I never feel that I am your wife, only that it is my great privilege to be near you and to serve you." She stopped, as if unable to go on, and he was silent a moment or two before he answered,"It might be a good idea; as you say, there is no one about there to know.""Are you ashamed of me?""I don't want to look ridiculous." Then a flash came into her eyes, and the old spirit asserted itself."Alfred," she said, "if you do not love me, I think at least you should learn to treat me with respect. If I am so distasteful to you we had better separate. I cannot go on bearing all that I have borne patiently for months. Let me go to Florence and Walter--they will be kind to me, and I will never be a burden upon you. The allowance that Sir William Rammage gives me would keep me in comfort alone, and it struck me the other day that, when he dies, perhaps he will leave me something."He looked at her with sudden alarm. The cowed look seemed to have gone from her face to his, and as she saw it she gathered strength, and went on, "I cannot be insulted, Alfred--I cannot and will not.""Don't be foolish, Anne; I am irritable sometimes, and I am not strong--""That is why I have borne so much from you.""I will go to Witley with you," he said, ignoring her remark altogether; "that is, if you like, and can raise the money to go. I have none."CHAPTER XVI"Fisher was quite pleased when I asked him if we could get off to Monte Carlo at Whitsuntide for a fortnight," Walter told Florence a few weeks later."Wasn't he shocked at your gambling propensities?""Not a bit. He looked as if he would like to go too--said, in rather a pompous manner"--and Walter imitated his editor exactly--"'Certainly, certainly; I think, Hibbert, your wife deserves a little treat of some sort after your long absence in the winter, and I am very glad if it is in my power to help you to give it to her.' He looked like the King of the Cannibal Islands making an Act of Parliament all by himself.""You are a ridiculous dear.""Thank you, Floggie. Fisher's a nice old chap, and I am very fond of him.""Do you know," said Florence, in rather a shocked tone, "Ethel Dunlop said one day that she believed he looked upon himself as a sort of minor providence?""Well, he does go about minor-providencing a good deal--which reminds me that he said he was coming, in a day or two, to ask you to take him out to buy a wedding-present for Ethel.""He'll buy her a Crown Derby tea-set, or a sugar-basin with a very large pair of tongs, see if he doesn't. Ethel said he ought to have married Aunt Anne.""He would have been a thousand times better than

Wimple. I wonder how those gay young people are getting on at Witley, and whether they want anything more before we start.""I think they must be all right at present," Florence said. "We sent them a good big box of stores when they went to the cottage; and I know you gave her a little money, dear Walter, and we paid up her debts, so that she cannot be worried. Then, of course, she has her hundred a year from Sir William to fall back upon, and Mr. Wimple probably has something.""Oh, yes, I suppose they are all right; besides, I don't feel too generous towards that beggar Wimple.""I should think not," Florence said, virtuously. "Do you know, Walter, once or twice it has struck me that perhaps he won't live; he doesn't look strong, and he is always complaining. Aunt Anne said that he wanted constant change of air.""Oh, yes, I remember she said Liphook was 'beneficial' to him.""If he died she would have her allowance, and be free.""No such luck," said Walter. "Besides, if he died, there would be nowhere for him to go to--he'd have to come back again. Heaven wouldn't have him, and, after all, he isn't quite bad enough for the devil to use his coals upon.""Walter, you mustn't talk in that way--you mustn't, indeed"--and she put her hand over his mouth again."All right," he said, struggling to get free; "beg pardon, Floggie, I won't do it again."Mr. Fisher duly arrived the next afternoon. He was a little breathless, though he carefully tried to conceal it, and wore the air of deference, but decision, which he always

thought the right one to assume to women. With much gravity he and Florence set out to buy the wedding-present. It resolved itself into a silver butter-dish with a silver cow on the lid, though Florence tried hard to make him choose a set of apostle spoons."A butter-dish will be much more useful, my dear lady.""It will be very useful," Florence echoed, though she feared that Ethel would be a little disappointed when she saw the cow."And now," said Mr. Fisher, in a benevolent voice, as they left the silversmith's in Bond Street, "we are close to Gunter's--if you would do me the honor to eat an ice?""I will do you the honor with great pleasure"--and she thought to herself, "His manner really is like Aunt Anne's this afternoon. If she had only married him instead of that horrid Mr. Wimple, we would have called him uncle with pleasure." She sat eating her very large strawberry ice, while he tasted his at intervals, as if he were rather afraid of it."Did the white cockatoo die?" she asked. He almost started, he was so surprised at the question."The white cockatoo?""You spoke of it last year--that night when Mrs. Baines dined with us.""I remember now," he said, solemnly; "yes; it died, Mrs. Hibbert. For five years it was perhaps my most intimate friend, and the companion of my solitude.""Why did it die?""It pulled a door-mat to pieces, and we fear it swallowed some of the fibre. My housekeeper, who is a severe woman, beat it with her gloves, and it did not recover." He spoke as if he were recounting a tragedy,

and became so silent that Florence felt she had ventured on an unlucky topic. But it was always rather difficult to make conversation for Mr. Fisher when she was alone with him; there were so few things he cared to discuss with a woman. Politics he considered beyond her, on literary matters he thought she could form no opinion, and society was a frivolity it was as well not to encourage her to consider too much. Suddenly a happy thought struck her."I am so happy about our holiday, Mr. Fisher," she said; "it is a long time since Walter and I had a real one together.""I am delighted that it has been arranged. I feel sure that Walter will enjoy it with so charming a companion," he answered, with an effort at gallantry that touched her."Are you going away this Whitsuntide?" she asked."No. I seldom go away from London, or my work.""I wish you were going to have a holiday, with someone you liked," she said."My dear lady"--and he gave a little sigh as he spoke, "I fear the only society I am fitted for is my own.""Oh, no, you are much too modest"--and she tried to laugh. "Some day I hope to buy you a butter-dish. I shall like going to get it so much, dear Mr. Fisher.""I think not," he answered, almost sadly."Ethel says you have been very kind to her about George," Florence said, in a low voice, for she was almost afraid to refer to it--"but you are kind to everybody."Mr. Fisher turned and looked at her with a grateful expression in his clear blue eyes; but she knew that he did not want to make any other answer. Gradually he put on his editorial manner, as if to ward off more intimate conversation, and when he left her at the door of her house,

for he refused to come in, she felt, while she looked after him, as if she had been present at the ending of the last little bit of romance in his life.The Hibberts were in high spirits when they started for their holiday."Two days in Paris," he said, as they drove to the hotel; "and then we'll crawl down France towards the south, and I will introduce you to the Mediterranean Sea. It's a pity we can only eat one dinner a night, considering the number of good ones there are to be had here. To be sure, if we manage carefully, we can do a little supper on the Boulevard afterwards, still, that hardly counts. But I don't think we can stay any longer, dear Floggie, even to turn you into a Parisian."Forty-eight hours later saw them in the express for Marseilles, where they stayed a night, in order to get the coast scenery by daylight, as they went on to Monte Carlo."It's a wonderful city," Walter said, with a sigh, as they strolled under the trees on the Prado. "The Jew, and the Turk, and the Infidel, and every other manner of man, has passed through it in his turn. Doesn't it suggest all sorts of pictures to you, darling?""Yes," she answered, a little absently; "only I was thinking of Monty and Catty.""We ought to wait a day, and go to see Monte Christo's prison.""Yes"--but she was not very eager. Her thoughts were with her children. Walter was always able to enjoy things, and to garnish them with the right memories. "I wonder if we shall find letters from home when we get to Monte Carlo," she said."I hope so," he answered, gently, but he said no more about the associations of Marseilles.As they were leaving the big hotel on the Cannebière, the next morning, a lady entered it. She had evidently just arrived--her luggage was being carried in."I shall be here three nights," they heard her say to the manageress. "I leave for England on Thursday morning."At the sound of her voice Florence turned round, but she had gone towards the staircase. The Hibberts had to catch their train, and could not wait."It was Mrs. North, Walter," Florence said, as they drove to the station; "I wish I could have spoken to her. She looked a lonely little figure entering that big hotel.""But there was no time," he answered; "if we lost our train we should virtually lose a day.""I wonder why she has come here?""The ways of women are inscrutable.""I meant to have written and told her about Aunt Anne, but I had so much to do before we left London that I really forgot it.""You might send her a line from Monte Carlo; you heard her say that she was to be at Marseilles three days; and then, perhaps, it would be better to leave her alone.""I should like to write to her just once, for I am afraid I was not very kind that day; but she took me by surprise.""Very well, then; write to her from Monte Carlo. It will give her an idea that we are not such terrible patterns of virtue ourselves, and perhaps she'll find that a consolation; but I don't see what more we can do for her. It is very difficult to help a woman in her position. She has put out to sea in an open boat, and, even if she doesn't

get wrecked, every craft she runs against is sure to hurt her."The letter was duly written and sent to the hotel at Marseilles. It found Mrs. North sitting alone, in her big room on the first floor. She was beside the open window, watching the great lighted cafés and the happy people gathered in little groups round the tables on the pavement."Oh, what a pity it is," she said to herself, "that we cannot remember. I always feel as if we had lived since the beginning and shall go on till the end--if end there be; but if one only had a memory to match, how wonderful it would be. If I could but see this place just once as it was hundreds of years ago, with the Greek people walking about and the city rising up about them! Now it looks so thoroughly awake, with its great, new buildings and horrible improvements; but if it ever sleeps, how wonderful its dreams must be! If one could get inside them and see it all as it once was!" . . . She turned her face longingly towards the port, at the far end of the Cannebière. "I am so hungry to see everything, and to know everything," she said to herself--"so hungry for all the things I have never had . . . I wonder if I shall die soon--I can't go on living like this, longing and waiting and hoping and grasping nothing . . . I wish I could see the water. If I had courage I would drive down and look at it--or walk past those people sitting out on the pavement, and go down to the sea. There might be a ship sailing by towards England, and I should know how his ship will look if it ever sails by. Or a ship going on towards India, and I could look after it, knowing that every moment it was getting nearer and nearer to him. To-morrow I will

find out precisely where the P. & O.'s sail from for Bombay; then I shall be able to guess what it all looked like when he set his foot on board, a year ago. Oh, thank God! I may think of him a little--that I am free--that it is not wickedness to think of him--or to love him," she added, with almost a sob.She got up and looked round the room. It was nearly dark. She could see the outline of the furniture and of her own figure dimly reflected in the long glass of the wardrobe."The place is so full of shadows they frighten me; but I am frightened at everything." She flung herself down again on the couch at the foot of the bed. "I wonder if the people who have always done right ever for a moment imagine that the people who have done wrong can suffer as much--oh, a thousand times more than themselves. They seem to imagine that sin is a sort of armor against suffering, and it does not matter how many blows are administered to those who have gone off the beaten track." She pillowed her head on her arms and watched the moving reflection of the light from the street. In imagination she stared through it at the long years before her,--wondering, almost in terror, how they would be filled. "I am so young, and I may live so long." There was a knock at her bedroom door."Come in," she cried, thankful for any interruption."A letter for Madame.""For me!" She seized it with feverish haste and looked at the direction by the window while the candles were being lighted. "I declare," she said, when the door was closed behind the garçon, "it is from the immaculate Mrs. Hibbert. May the saints have guarded her from contamination while she wrote it to me!" Her happy spirits

flashed back, and the weary woman of five minutes ago was almost a light-hearted girl again."It is rather a nice letter," she said, and propped up the wicks of the flickering candles with the corner of the envelope. "I believe she wrote merely out of kindness; it proves that there is some generosity in even the most virtuous heart. I'll write to Mrs. Wimple--" she stopped--and reflected for a minute or two. "Poor old lady! she was very good to me; she was like a mother--no woman has called me 'my love' since she went away." She walked up and down the room for a moment, and looked out again at the wide street and the flashing lights. Suddenly she turned, seized her blotting-book, and knelt down by the table in the impulsive manner that characterized her. "I'll write at once," she said. "Of course it will shock her sweet old nerves; but I know she'll be glad to hear from  me, though she won't own it even to herself.""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 cast and the 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? 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. "0 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 heart 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 forever, 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 the garçon entered 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 in Deccan."She fell down on her knees by the table and, putting her face on her hands, burst into passionate weeping."0 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. O dear Father, 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--let me be so. I have suffered so--I have suffered so! O dear God, is it not enough? Forgive me and let me be happy."CHAPTER XVIIIT was 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 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, there had sometimes crept, lately, 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 wagonettes 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 have always 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 here, it had been for days together there. 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, 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 foot-step 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 up-stairs 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 ex-

tinguished the lamp and shut the drawing-room door and locked it, remembering for a moment the unknown people, in the by-gone 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 trades-people 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 peculiar little gulps. "We can't go on staying here, unless we have enough to eat," he said; "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 said, "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," she suggested."No," he said; "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 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."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," she went on, "I have given you 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 are 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 feel dubious as to 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 of fear, she hid her thin hands out of sight. "I cannot bear it--I am old."CHAPTER XVIIIBEFORE nine 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, in it, 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 look and 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 love, 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 fagots 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."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 color. "He's a bad 'un to shy, he is," Lucas went on; "and he's not particular what it's at--wheelbarrows, 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 post-mark." 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.," and that it had the Liphook post-mark. 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 hand-writing"--and 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 past 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 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 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, and 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 Marseilles. 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 soiled 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 dumfounded 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, writ-

ing 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 up-stairs." Helplessly the servant obeyed her, and, unfalteringly, the soft footsteps pattered after him up to the second floor. There he entered the front bed-room, 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, a big four-post bedstead with dark hangings facing them. 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 colored 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 of The 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 at 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 check-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 check-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 check-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, then?" he asked, withdrawing his fingers."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 repeated, 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 on The 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."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, kneeling down, 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 that you will see 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--" Anguish and dignity were strangely blended in her voice, but she hesitated a moment and it seemed as if the latter had gained the victory when she went on, "You and I will probably never meet again, William; you have insulted me shamefully, 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-by, Mrs. Alfred Wimple," Sir William said, politely. "Charles, show Mrs. Wimple down-stairs."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 check, and slowly she followed the servant down the stairs.CHAPTER XIXAUNT ANNE went slowly along Portman Square. She felt, and it was a cruel moment to do so, that she was growing very old. Her feet almost gave way beneath her; her hands had barely strength to hold her cloak together over her chest. There was a little cold breeze passing by; as it swept over her face she realized that she was half stunned and sad and sick at heart. But she dragged on, step by step, stopping once, to hold by the iron railings of a house, before she could find strength enough to turn into a side-street."I won't believe it," she said; "it was not for the money. He could not have known; his uncle would not have told him--it is not likely that he would have betrayed the confidence of a client." And then she remembered what Sir William had said about the debt to the landlady in the Gray's Inn Road and to the mother in the country. Of course that meant Liphook. It gave her a world of comfort, had lifted a terrible dread from her heart, so that, even in spite of the insults of the last hour, she felt that her morning visit had not been wholly thrown away. She had not the faculty of looking forward very far, and it did not occur to her as yet that, by revealing her marriage, she had ruined her prospects with her cousin. It was the insults that had enraged her; the going back to Witley, the day's dinner, and the very near future, that perplexed her. A month, even a week, hence

might take care of itself, provided to-day were made easy; it had always been so with her.She was bewildered, staggered, for want of money; she had just two shillings in the world. Florence and Walter were still away; she could think of no one of whom to borrow. She came to a confectioner's shop, and looked at it hesitatingly, for she was tired and exhausted. Even though Alfred Wimple waited at the other end, mercilessly ready to count the coins with which she returned, she felt that he must buy a few minutes' rest for herself. She wanted to sit down and think. She tottered into the shop, and having asked for a cup of tea, waited for it, with a sigh of relief, in a dark corner. But she was too much stupefied and beaten to think clearly. When the tea came, hot and smoking, in a thick white cup, to which her lips clung gratefully, she felt better. She began to burn with indignation, which was an excellent sign; she crushed Sir William Rammage out of her thoughts, and winked almost savagely, as though she had felt him under her foot. She told herself again that Alfred could not have known about the will, and had not deceived her about Liphook. She even tried to think of him affectionately, but that was difficult, with the dread of his face before her if she returned empty-handed. But she did not think of the money question as despairingly now as she had done a few minutes since; she had a firm belief in her own power of resource. She felt certain that when she had reflected, calmly, something would suggest itself. She remembered Mrs. North; but it was not possible to borrow of her, for she had forfeited all consideration to the regard Aunt Anne thought it necessary to feel for any one from whom she could accept a loan."I cannot do that, even for Alfred," she said. "I have

always held my head high; I cannot lower it to Mrs. North, even for him." But she took the letter from her pocket and read it over again. "She does not seem to comprehend the difference in our positions," she said, as she put it back into the envelope, though not before she had noticed, with a keen eye, that Mrs. North had said she would be back in England very soon, and calculated that that could not mean just yet. "If Walter and Florence were in London I should be relieved of this anxiety immediately," she thought. Then a good idea seemed to strike her. She considered it from every point of view, and felt at last that it was feasible. "I am quite sure," she told herself, "that Florence would say I was justified in going to her mother in her absence. I will explain to her that there are some things her daughter would wish me to buy, and ask her to let me have sufficient money to defray their cost. Besides," she added, as an after-thought, "I must see those dear children; Florence, I know, would wish me to do so; and it is an attention I ought not to omit, after all the regard and kindness that she and dear Walter have always shown me." She got up and looked longingly at the buns and tarts in the window; though she had only one unbroken shilling left, she could not wholly curb her generosity."Would you put me a couple of sponge-cakes into a bag?" she said to the young woman. "I hope they are quite fresh; I prefer them a little brown." She walked away, justified and refreshed, holding the paper bag by the corner.But when she arrived at the house near Regent's Park, it was only to be told that Florence's mother had gone out for the day, and that the children had not yet returned from their morning walk. The servant, seeing how dis-

appointed she looked, begged her to come in and wait for a little while. "I don't think they'll be long, ma'am," she said, almost gently. "For," as she explained to her fellow-servants afterwards, "I could not help being sorry for an old lady who had made a stupid of herself like that." Aunt Anne hesitated a moment. "There's a nice fire in the dining-room," the servant continued, and, having persuaded her to enter, she turned the easy-chair round, and asked if she should make a cup of tea."Thank you, no," said Aunt Anne, in a tone that showed she was sensible of the desire to please her, but was, nevertheless, aware of her own position in society. "I do not require any refreshment; I have just partaken of an early lunch." She turned, gratefully, to the fire when she was alone, and, putting her feet on the fender, faced her difficulties once more. She could not remember any human being in London from whom, under any pretext whatever, she could borrow. She was baffled and at bay. The memory of Sir William's taunts vanished altogether as, with a fright that was gradually becoming feverish, she went over in her mind every possible means of raising even a few shillings--though a few shillings, she knew, would be virtually useless against the tide she had to stem. Of a very small sum she was already certain, for she had devised a means of raising it, but she feared it would only be sufficient to provide food for the evening, and perhaps for to-morrow--and then? She folded her hands and looked into the fire, shaking her head once or twice, as if various schemes were presenting themselves, only to be rejected. The clock on the mantelpiece struck half-past one; at half-past four her train left Waterloo Station. There was little time to lose. She got up, took off her cloak, and examined it carefully, then put it round her once

more, fingering the clasp, while she fastened it, as if it were a thing she treasured. As she did so, her eye caught a little pile on the mantelpiece; it consisted of seven shillings in silver, with a half-sovereign on the top. She looked at it as if fascinated, and calculated precisely all it would buy. She remembered, with dismay, that Jane Mitchell's weekly wages were due that evening, that Jane's mother was ill, and the money was necessary. She heard again the hard voice in which Alfred had said, "Unless you bring back money, I shall not stay here any longer." She could see his eyes, dull and unrelenting."I know they would give it to me; I know that Walter and Florence would deny me nothing that was really for my happiness," she thought, and rang the bell. "I fear I shall not be able to stay and see the children," she said, haughtily, to the servant, but with a little excitement she could not keep out of her voice; "my train is, unfortunately, an early one. And would you tell their grandmother I have ventured to borrow this seventeen shillings on the mantelpiece? I came up to town with less money than I find I require; I will write to her in a day or two, and return it.""It's the children's money, ma'am; I heard their grandmother say they were to save it up for Christmas.""Dear children!" said the old lady, with a little smile; "they will be delighted to hear that I have borrowed it. Tell them that Aunt Anne is their debtor. Give them these two sponge-cakes--they will think of me while they eat them." She snapped her purse as she put the money into it, and left the house with a light footstep. She walked on towards Portland Road. There was only one thing more to do, and that must be done quickly. It would add perhaps ten shillings to her purse, but even

that would be a precious sum. She hesitated a moment. A threat of rain was in the air, but she did not feel it. The chilly wind touched her face, but it did not make her shiver, now that her courage had returned. She looked up and down Great Portland Street, doubtfully, then went slowly, but with decision, towards a street she knew well.A quarter of an hour later she was in an omnibus, going to Waterloo Station. The cloak with the steel clasp had disappeared; on her face was an expression that betrayed she had gone through an experience that depressed her. She watched the people hurrying by in hansoms, and remembered the day she had driven in one herself to see Alfred Wimple off to the country--the day on which Florence had given her the five-pound note. She was very weary, and beginning to long for home. She planned the evening dinner, and got out a little before she reached Waterloo, in order to buy it at the shops near the station. There had been concealed beneath her cloak all the morning a square bag, made of black stuff, which now she carried on her arm. When she stood on the platform waiting for her train it was no longer flat and empty, but bulged into strange shapes that were oddly suggestive. In her hand she carried three bunches of primroses, and a smaller one of violets; under her arm were some evening papers. She looked satisfied, and almost happy, for she felt that a few hours at least of contentment were before her. She entered her third-class carriage, thinking of the day she had seen Alfred Wimple off to Liphook; she remembered, with a little triumph, how she had exchanged his ticket. "I am sure the papers will be a solace to him," she said; "writing for the press must give him a deep interest in public affairs--it must have been a

great deprivation to him not to know what was going on. My dear Alfred!--these violets shall be my offering to him as soon as I arrive; I cannot do enough to compensate him for William's cruel aspersions on his character. My darling, if I only had thousands I would give them to you; I would make them into a carpet for you to walk upon!"She was alone in the carriage; she put her bag down beside her on the hard scat, and shut the windows, for the drizzling rain was coming in, aslant, and chilled her. Once or twice a sharp pang of pain darted through her shoulders, but she did not mind; she was dreaming among illusions, and found a passing spell of happiness that brought a smile to her lips and a wink of almost merry anticipation to her eye, as she saw the little dinner she had devised set out, and Alfred facing her at table. She imagined him saying, in the solemn manner in which he said everything, "I feel better, Anne," when he had finished, and she knew that in those few words she would find a balm for all the insults and misery of the last few hours. She repented now that she was returning by the early train; it seemed like treachery to him. It had been almost noble of him to conceal from her the embarrassing debt he had at Liphook. "He has evidently been reticent," she thought, "from a desire to save me pain. My dear one!--I have wronged him lately, but I will make it up to him this evening. I will tell him that there is no poverty or sorrow I should not think it a privilege to share with him." She peered out of the window at the landscape dulling with the rain. "I hope he is not in the garden," she thought. "He will catch cold, and his cough was so bad last week. I am glad I remembered to bring some lozenges for him."The train sped on past Woking and the fir-woods be-

yond; they reminded her of the trees round the cottage at Witley. When it was dark to-night, she would look up at them before she bolted the door after Jane Mitchell. And then she and Alfred would sit over the fire and talk; he would feel so much better after his dinner, she was sure he would be kind to her. He had been worried lately with poverty, but just for a little while he should forget it. With the future she did not concern herself, for she had already devised a plan that would make it easy. She would go and see Mr. Boughton and of course he would help them when he heard that Alfred was her husband. He would continue the allowance he had given them, and when Sir William Rammage made a new will he would take care that it was not an iniquitous one. It had never seriously occurred to her that William would leave her money, though, once or twice, the possibility had crossed her mind. But she had never been able to look forward at all for herself. "Now," she thought, "I must give the future my consideration. I must think of it for my dear Alfred. Luxuries are necessary to him; he cannot divest himself of his longing for them. Perhaps when Mr. Boughton returns he will make William ashamed of his conduct to me to-day, and he will do something for us before he dies; it would be very detrimental to his pride that we should starve, and I did not mince words to-day." The train passed Milford Station; in a few minutes she would be at Witley. "I hope Alfred won't be angry with me for coming by the earlier train," she thought, with some misgiving. "I will explain to him that I had finished my commissions in town sooner than I had anticipated, and, seeing that the weather was not likely to improve, I thought it better to return, even at the risk of his displeasure."The governess-cart was waiting for her."I brought an umbrella," Lucas said, "as it was raining. I noticed you went without one this morning, and the weather has come on that unexpected bad, I was afraid you would get wet through.""I am most grateful for your thoughtfulness," Aunt Anne said, with distant graciousness. She put her bag out of reach of the rain, and cared little for herself. She was too full of other matters to trouble about the weather. As she went along the straight road, of which by this time she knew every yard, she mentally counted up the shillings in her pocket, and considered that she ought to give one of them to Lucas. "He has been most attentive," she said, and she managed to extract the coin from her pocket, and put it into her black silk glove, ready for the end of the journey, which she considered would be the right moment to present it. The rain came down steadily. It was no longer aslant or fitful, and in the sky overhead there were no changing clouds. "I fear you have had an unfavorable day," she said to Lucas."It has rained mostly all the time. I hope you won't catch cold, ma'am. I thought I saw you with a cloak this morning; have you left it behind?"Aunt Anne resented the question; she thought it was unduly familiar, and she answered, coldly,"I have left it behind--for a purpose. It required renovating," she added."I might have brought you a shawl, or something, if I had known. I called at the house as I passed to see if Mr. Wimple would like to come and meet you. But he wasn't in.""I hope he is not out in the rain," she said to herself. "Did the servant say if he had been out long?" she asked."She said he had been gone half an hour. It's a pity I missed him.""He probably had an engagement," she said, and a little uneasiness stole over her. Another mile. She could scarcely conceal her impatience. "Couldn't the pony run up this little hill?" she asked."It could," said Lucas, rather contemptuously; "but Mrs. Burnett don't like him to run uphill, she don't--she thinks it's bad for him." Aunt Anne was too much engrossed in her own thoughts to answer. "He goes faster than the donkey did last year, anyhow, ma'am; do you mind the donkey?""I frequently drove him.""He was a deal of trouble, he was," Lucas went on; "and they didn't do well by him--gave four pound ten for him, and when they come to sell him a year later they only got two pound five.""So that they were mulcted of just half the sum for which they had purchased him," she said, absently, having quickly done the sum in her head. "Was there any reason for that?""Well, you see, this was it," said Lucas--"when gentry first come to live about here they took to keeping donkeys, so donkeys went up; then after a bit they found they wouldn't go, and they took to selling them and buying ponies, so donkeys went down. I am afraid you are getting very wet, ma'am. I wish I had thought to bring a rug to cover you. But here we are at the house, and you'll be able to dry yourself by the fire.""Thank you, Lucas, thank you," and she slipped the shilling into his hand, and, taking her bulging bag from under the seat, walked into the house by the back door."Jane," she asked, the moment she crossed the threshold, "where is Mr. Wimple?""He went out an hour and a half ago, ma'am.""Do you know in what direction he went?""Well, last time I saw him he was in the garden; then I see him going down the dip."She was silent for a moment, then she asked, gently,"Was he at home all the morning?" and received an answer in the affirmative. She was silent, and seemed to turn something over in her mind."You are quite sure he went down the dip, and not more than an hour and a half ago?" She stood by the kitchen fire, and she spoke absently. "I have brought a sole for dinner," she said. "I must ask you to cook it more carefully than you did the last one, Jane. Mr. Wimple is most particular about fish--he cannot eat it unless it is quite dry. After the sole there is a chicken and some asparagus. Give me my bag--there are some other things in it, and a bottle of claret at the bottom, which I wish put on the dining-room mantel-shelf for an hour. I trust you have made a good fire, Jane?""Yes, ma'am; but I had to do it of wood, for the coals are nearly out.""I prefer wood; it is not my intention to have more coal just yet," said Aunt Anne, firmly. "Where have you put the primroses I brought? I wish to arrange them in a bowl for the centre of the table.""Hadn't you better take off your shawl first, ma'am--it's wringing wet--and let me make you a cup of tea?""No, thank you, I will not trouble you to do that," Aunt Anne said, gently. "But put Mr. Wimple's slippers by the fire in the dining-room." She went into the drawing-room and held a match to the grate, and stood beside it while the paper blazed and the wood crackled, thinking

that she and Alfred would sit over the fire cosily that evening after dinner."I am sure he is worried about money," she said to herself, "and that he is in debt; but he shall not have these anxieties long--it is much better that his uncle should know about our marriage." Her eyes turned towards the window and the garden and the trees with the rain falling on them. "I wonder if he has gone far; I hope he is not depressed. I fear he worries himself unduly," she said, and went into the dining-room. The slippers were toasting in the fender; she turned the easy-chair towards the fire and put beside it a little table from the corner of the room. Then she went for the papers she had brought from London, and arranged them on it, and put the little bunch of violets in a glass and set it by the papers. She drew back and looked at the cosey arrangement with satisfaction. "My darling Alfred!" she said to herself; and then, softly, as if she were afraid of Jane hearing her, she crept out of the front door and under the veranda that went round the house, and looked out at the weather. The rain had nearly stopped, but the sky was gray and the air was cold. She pulled her shawl closer, and, trying to shake off the chill that was overtaking her, went swiftly down the garden pathway. At the far end the grass was long and wet; the drops fell from the beeches and larches above. She found the narrow pathway that led to the dip, and went along it. She looked anxiously ahead, but there was no sign of Alfred. "I know he will be glad to see me," she thought. "I know the silent tenderness of his heart--my darling--my darling, you are all I have in the world!"On she went among the gorse, between the firs, and over the clumps of budding heather, a limp black figure

in the misty twilight. She had no definite reason for supposing he would return that way; but she knew it to be a short cut from  the Liphook direction, and some strange instinct seemed to be sending her on; she did not hesitate or falter, but just obeyed it. The pathway was very narrow, the wet growth on either side brushed her skirts as she passed by--down and down--lower and lower--towards the valley. On the other side, a quarter of a mile away, she could see the little thatched shed the children called their "house," where perhaps in past days a cow had been tethered. There was not a sign of Alfred. "Perhaps he is a little farther on, over the ridge," she said, and sped on. A miserable aching was upon her; she had been out of doors many hours; she was wet and cold through and through. Every moment the long grasses and the dead bracken of a past year swept over her feet. The mist was everywhere. The drops fell from    the leaves above on to her shoulders. "He must be so cold and wet," she thought; "I know he will make his cough worse; I am glad I kept the lozenges in my pocket." She hesitated at the bottom of the valley for a moment, and then began the upward path. "I know he wants me," she said aloud, with an almost passionate note in her feeble voice; "I can feel that he wants me." She looked through the straggling firs that dotted the ground over which she was now making her way. Still, there was not a sign of Alfred. Only the trees and the undergrowth, sodden with the long day's rain.Suddenly there was the sound of a woman's laughter. She stopped, petrified. It came from the little thatched shed twenty yards away. The side of the shed was towards her and only the front of it was open, so that she could not see who was within it. But she knew that two people were there. One was a woman, and something

told her that the other was Alfred Wimple. For a minute she could not stir. Then, as if it had been waiting for a signal, the rain began to fall, with a soft, swishing sound, upon the thatched roof of the shed; upon Aunt Anne's thin cashmere shawl; upon all the drooping vegetation. The mistiness grew deeper, and from the distances the night began to gather. The black figure standing in the mist knew that a few yards off there was hidden from her that which meant life or death. She went a little nearer to the shed, but her feet almost failed her, her heart stood still, a sickening dread had laid hold of her. "I will go round and face them," she thought, and dragged herself up to the shed. But as she reached the corner she heard Alfred Wimple's voice, "You know it's only for her money that I stay with the old woman, Caroline"--and she stopped, resting her head and hands against the back and sides of the shed, from sheer fright at what was coming next."Well, but you don't give me any of it," the woman answered."I don't get any myself now.""Then what do you stay with her for?""Because it won't do to let her slip.""It's mother that makes such a fuss--it's not me; though, of course, it's hard, you always being away like this.""Tell her she won't gain anything by making a fuss," Alfred Wimple said, in the hard voice Aunt Anne knew so well."She says all the four years we have been married, you have not kept me decently three months together."Aunt Anne held on to the shed for dear life, and her heart stood still."I shall keep you decently by and by, Caroline.""And then she's always going on about what you owe her. I daren't go up to London any more, she leads me such a life.""Tell her I'll pay her by and by," Alfred Wimple said."I'm sure if it wasn't for grandmother being at Liphook, I don't know what I'd do. Sometimes I think I'd better get a place of some sort--then I'd be able to help you.""But your grandmother doesn't lead you a life, Caroline?""Well, you see, it was she made us get married, so she can't well, and she has kept mother quiet on that account; but couldn't you come to us again, Alfred? I don't believe grandmother would mind. She thinks you are very wise to stay with your aunt if you're going to get her money, and often tells me I am impatient, but I can't bear being parted like this.""And I can't bear it either"--something that was equivalent to tenderness came into his voice. Aunt Anne drew her breath as she heard it. "You know I am fond of you; I never was fond of anybody else.""Mother says when you first had her rooms in the Gray's Inn Road, there was some girl you used to go out with?""She was fond of me," he said; "I didn't care about her.""My goodness! look at the rain," said the woman, as it came pouring down; "we must stay here till it's over bit. Alfred, you are sure you are as fond of me as ever?""I am just as fond of you; I am fonder. You don't suppose I stay with an old woman from choice, do you? I do it just as much for your sake as mine, Caroline.""Call me your wife again--you haven't done it lately--and kiss me, do kiss me!""You are my wife," he said, "and you know I am fond of you, and--" Aunt Anne heard the sound of his kisses. "I like holding you again," he went on, "it's awful being always with that old woman.""Well, you don't have to kiss her, as she's your aunt," she said, with a laugh."I have to kiss her night and morning," he answered; "but I get out of her way as much as possible--you can bet that.""Mother and grandmother are always saying, perhaps she will give you the slip and leave her money to somebody else.""I don't think she'll do that," he said; "but that's one reason why I keep a sharp look-out.""Hasn't she got anything now? You don't seem to get much out of her, if she has.""She's a close-fisted old woman. Come up closer on my shoulder--I like feeling your face there.""Suppose she died to-morrow," the woman said--"where would you be then?""Of course there's that danger. One must risk something.""And is she sure to get money when this--what is it?--her cousin--dies?""She'll get five-and-twenty thousand pounds. I have seen his will, so I know it's true.""Does she know herself?""No"--and he laughed a little short laugh.Aunt Anne, listening and shuddering, remembered, oddly, that she had hardly ever heard him laugh in her life before."But how did you manage to see the will?""I told you before, Caroline, I saw it in my uncle's office; so there is no mistake about it, if that is what you mean."Aunt Anne nodded her weary head to herself. "William Rammage was right," she thought; "he is justified. I might have known that at least he would not deceive me.""And has she left it all to you, Alfred?" the girl's voice--for it was a girl's voice--asked."Every penny. I took good care of that; and I'll take good care she doesn't alter it, too.""But when do you think she'll get it?""As soon as this cousin of hers dies. He has been dying these ever so many months," Alfred Wimple said, discontentedly; "only he's so long about it.""But she won't give it to you right away when she has got it herself. You'll have to wait till she dies.""I don't think she'll live long," he said, grimly; " I'm half afraid, sometimes, that she won't last as long as he will, unless he makes haste.""We'll have good times, Alfred, once we've got our money?""Yes, we will," he answered, with determination."You mustn't think that I care only for the money," the girl went on; "it's your being away that I care about most.""I care about money; I want money, Caroline--I don't like being poor.""You see, I have always been poor, and don't mind so much.""You won't be poor by and by, when the old woman is dead. I hope it won't be long, for I can't stand it much longer.""Isn't she kind to you?""I suppose she means to be kind," he said, gratingly. "She whines about me so, and is always wanting to kiss me"--and he made a harsh sound in his throat; "I can't bear being kissed by an old woman.""It doesn't matter when she is your aunt; it isn't as if you were married to her. Wouldn't it be awful to be married to an old woman?""Ugh! I think I should kill her, Caroline. Let me kiss you.""Let's say all we'll do when we get our money, Alfred, dear," the girl said, in a wheedling voice. "I am glad of this rain, for we can't go back till it leaves off a bit; let's say all we'll do when we get her money.""I believe you care more about her money than you do about me," he said, in the grumbling voice Aunt Anne knew well."No, you don't"--and she laughed a little; "you don't think that a bit. I am fonder of you than the day I was married.""You were fond enough then," he said, almost tenderly; "I shall never forget you kissing your wedding-gown as you sat and stitched at it the night before.""I thought I'd never get it done in time.""You were determined to have a new one, weren't you?""I thought it would be unlucky if I didn't, though there wasn't anybody but you to see it. It isn't that I care for money, Alfred," she went on--"don't think it. It's only mother that makes the fuss. We'll pay her up quick when we've got it, and we'll be awfully good to grandmother; but, as for me, I wouldn't care if you hadn't a penny. It's only you I want.""And it's only you I want," he said, with a little cough that belied his words."What is that rustling, Alfred?--is there any one about?""It's only the rain among the grass and leaves; I wish it'd leave off--I ought to be getting in.""What time is she coming back from London?""I expect she'll be here soon now. You had better give me that money, Caroline.""It's hidden in my dress--wait till I get it out; I hope mother won't hear I was paid, or she'll wonder what I've done with it.""I can't do without a little money," he said, in the tone Aunt Anne had often heard; "and the old woman is so close-fisted she expects me to account for everything she gives me.""Well, there it is--twenty-two shillings and sixpence. I don't want grandmother to know, for she said last time she wondered you liked taking it.""A man has a right to his wife's earnings," he said, firmly."Well, I've got three dresses in the house to do; they'll come to a good bit. It isn't that I mind giving it. Alfred, there's some one against the back of the shed.""It's only the branches of the trees brushing against it," he said. "I must go back--the old woman will be coming home.""Don't go till it stops raining a bit," she pleaded; "and put your arms tighter round me, I am not with you so often now. Aren't you glad I am not an old woman?""Ugh!"--and he made a sound of disgust. "Old women make me sick.""Well, you'll be old long before I am," she said, with a triumphant laugh. "My goodness! look at the rain."Aunt Anne went slowly along the narrow pathway,

down into the valley, and up towards the larch and fir-trees again. Her strength was almost spent when she reached the garden. She bent her head beneath the downpour, and dragged herself, in such frightened haste as she could manage, to the house. She stopped for a moment beneath the veranda, as if to be sure that she was awake. She looked, half incredulously, down at her wet and clinging clothes, and then into the darkness and distance. Beyond the trees and across the valley she knew that two people were saying their good-byes. She imagined their looks and words and their caresses. It seemed as if the whole world were theirs--it had been pulled from under her feet to make a heaven for them. She was trembling with cold and fear, but she told herself that there was one thing left at which she must clutch a little longer--her self-control and dignity."I thought," she said, bewildered, and with the strange hunted look on her face, as she entered the cottage--"I thought God had forgiven me and sent him back, but it is all a mistake. Perhaps it is part of my punishment." Everything looked strange to her: as if years had passed since she had left it only an hour ago, She stood by the drawing-room door for a moment, looking in at the fire that had burned up and made a cheerful blaze, but she was afraid to go nearer to it. She felt like an outcast from everywhere; there was no place for her in the world, no one who wanted her, nothing left to do. And there was no love for her, and no forgetfulness; she had to bear pain--that alone was her portion. She wanted to lie down and die, very much, but death and love alike are often strangely difficult to those who need them most. She meandered into the kitchen, without any settled plan of what she was going to do."Jane," she said, "the moment you have finished taking in the dinner, I want you to go up-stairs and follow the directions I will give you.""Yes, ma'am," Jane answered, with some astonishment when she had listened to them; "but do you mean to-night?""Yes, I mean to-night," Aunt Anne said, and turned away."Let me take your shawl, ma'am; it is wringing wet.""I shall be glad if you will divest me of it," the old lady said, gently, "and if you will bring me my cap and slippers; I am fatigued, and cannot ascend the stairs." She sat down for a minute, and listened to Jane's foot-steps going and returning. It seemed as if the whole house were full of shame and agony; a single step in any direction might take her into its midst--she did not dare venture there till she had finished the task that was before her. She went into the dining-room, with a strange, bewildered air still upon her, as if she were doubtful whether it was the room that she had known so well, or if it had, somehow, been changed in the last hour. The cloth was laid; the primroses were in their place; the candles were lit, for it was nearly dinner-time; the blinds were down, and the curtains drawn. She looked at the easy-chair she had put ready for Alfred, with the little table beside it, and the papers and the violets. Then she went up to the mantelpiece and rang a hand-bell that stood on it."Jane," she said, "take away Mr. Wimple's slippers--he will not require them; put them with the other things as I told you." She pushed the easy-chair to its place, away from the fire, put the little table back into the corner, and hid the papers and the violets out of sight, for

she could not bear to see them. She looked at the cloth again, and taking up the things that had been laid for her carried them to the sideboard."You need not set a place for me," she said to Jane, who still lingered, half wonderingly. "I dined early in town; it is only for Mr. Wimple"--and she went back to the drawing-room. She hesitated for a moment by the door; she felt as if the dead people who had known it in by-gone years were softly crowding into it now, as if they would witness the scene that was before her, and look on at all she had to bear, just for a little while, before she became one of them. She gathered courage to walk to one of the chairs; she put the peacock screen beside her and waited. A quarter of an hour went by, while she stared at the fire with her hands clasped and her head drooping, or at the darkness outside the windows that looked towards the garden. But she could scarcely bear to turn her head in that direction. All the time she was listening, curiously and with a shrinking dread, for the sound of footsteps. Jane came to her."The dinner is ready," she said; "it's a pity Mr. Wimple don't come--I wanted to get home to mother a bit early to-night. Her cough was worse this morning.""You can go as soon as you have finished your duties," Aunt Anne said; "and remind me to pay you your wages, for I am often oblivious--" the words died away on her lips. She heard the handle of the hall-door turn.CHAPTER XXThe rain showed no signs of abating, but Alfred Wimple was chilly and hungry. Moreover, he was tired of the tête-à-tête in the shed, and he had a dull curiosity to hear the result of Aunt Anne's visit to town. It was certain to provide some sort of excitement for the evening. If she had brought back money he would reap the benefit of it; if she had not, he could at least make her suffer, and to watch her suffer would provide him a satisfaction over which he gloated more and more with every experience of it. He buttoned his coat, turned up the bottoms of his trousers, and looked for his umbrella; then hesitated a moment and looked out at the weather. He hated rain."I wish I had thought to bring myself an umbrella," his companion said; "it's a long way across. Joe Pook is over at the King's Head with his cart, and he'll drive me back, but it's a good bit to there."Alfred Wimple coughed."I can't let you have mine"--and he held it firmly; "my chest is not strong.""I wasn't saying it for that," she answered; "I was only thinking it was a pity I didn't bring one. Good-by; you'll take care of yourself, won't you?""I will try," he said, in his most sombre manner, as though he felt it to be an important undertaking."Good-by, Caroline."Before they were many yards apart she turned and

went after him. Her jacket was already wet with rain; her black straw hat was shining. There was an anxious excitement in her manner."Alfred"--she put her hand on his shoulder and looked at his face while she spoke--"you care about me really, don't you?""Why do you ask that now?" he asked, severely."I don't know. Mother said once that you had love for nothing but yourself. It isn't true, is it? Sometimes I think I would have done better if I had married Albert Spark. I believe he's fonder of me now than you are."He looked impatient and at a loss what to do. He could not understand unselfish love; self-protection was his own strongest feeling; everything else was merely a means, a weapon to be used in attaining it."You mustn't keep me in the rain," he said; "the old woman will be back by this time. Why do you think I don't care for you?""I don't know"--and as she spoke the tears came into her eyes; "I think it was because you just let me go in the rain and didn't see that I'd get wet through. It doesn't matter, but I'd like you to have seen it.""You are stronger than I am. It is dangerous for me to get wet; I came out in the rain to meet you.""And then, perhaps I oughtn't to say it, but you took the money and didn't offer me a shilling to keep for myself.""I didn't know you wanted it. You can't expect me to go without anything in my pocket?""No"--and she burst into tears; "it's only sometimes I get dissatisfied," she added, apologetically."You should have done it in the shed. You ought not to keep me here in the rain. You know that.""No, I oughtn't; you go on, dear"--there was sudden repentance in her voice. "Just kiss me and say you are fond of me again." He leaned over her, and for a moment his eyes flashed, as he kissed her with a loathsome eagerness that left the woman's heart more hungry than before."I am fond of you," he said; "you know I am fond of you--when I see you. But I can't come to Liphook to be dunned for money.""I always do the best I can to get things for you; and if I have plenty of work I'll take care it's more comfortable, if you'll only come. There, go now, Alfred dear. I don't want to keep you in the wet. It's only that we have been married these four years, and, somehow, we never seem to have got any good of it yet." She put her arms round his neck for a moment. "I am awful fond of you!" she said, and turned away.Something in her voice touched him; or it might have been that he was fonder of her than he supposed, for as he went by the pathway that poor Aunt Anne had hurried along, bowed down with insult and despair, only twenty minutes before, there was a less sullen expression than usual on his face. He thought of the clinging hands and tearful eyes, and the undisguised love written on her face, with something like satisfaction. He would settle down with her, once he possessed the money. He liked the idea of it; it would be good to be waited upon by her, to go abroad with her perhaps, to buy comfort and luxury, and to feel her hanging about him. He lingered in thought over her caresses; he remembered Aunt Anne's and shuddered. He had said truly enough that he could not bear the latter much longer; toleration had grown to endurance, endurance to dislike, and dislike to loathing. He was sensible of even being beneath the same roof with

her; her voice irritated him, her touch produced a feeling that was almost fear. Every step he made now towards the house that contained her was reluctant and almost shrinking. He could just bear life with her if she gave him good food and comfort and money he could not obtain elsewhere; but unless she gave him these things, which he counted worth any price that could be paid, he felt it would be impossible to stay with her longer. Warmth and idleness and comfort were gods to him; but his loathing for the poor soul who had struggled for months to give them to him was developing into horror. He waited, doggedly, day after day for Sir William Rammage's death. When that happened he would seize the money that would be hers and, without mercy, leave her to her fate; he and Caroline would get away till she were dead. If she would not give it him easily, then he would make life impossible for her to bear. He had not the least intention of murdering her, but in imagination he often put his hands round her throat, and all his fingers felt her life growing still beneath them. He resented everything she did: her voice, her footstep, her tender, wrinkled face; he felt as if her winking left eye were driving him mad--as if there was poison in her breath. He considered her life an offence against him, except as a means of giving him money. When once she had done that, when she had given him the thousands for which he had married her, he wanted her forever out of his sight, and underground; he gloated in imagination over the deepness of the grave into which he would have her put, and the silence and darkness that would surround her.He was at the bottom of the dip. He reflected, with triumph, that it was too late for any question of going to the station to meet the half-past-six-o'clock train. He thought

of the rain that would fall upon her as she drove to the cottage. He wondered if she had left her cloak behind, and imagined the cold and pain she would suffer without it. He could see her in the open cart, bending her head and shoulders beneath the gray storm, carrying the bag that contained the dinner for him, and he imagined the bulging condition in which the bag would return. If she had not brought back all he considered necessary for his comfort, she would tremble to see him, and he would not spare her one single pang. He was among the firs and larches, within sight of the cottage windows. He hated to think that she was behind them--that almost immediately he would be in the same room with her, sitting opposite to her at table. He thought of himself as a martyr, and of her as a loathsome burden, a presence that had no right to be inflicted on him; one that he would be justified in using any means within his power to remove. His feeling for her had grown in intensity till it threatened to burst the bonds of reserve and silence in which he had wrapped himself. It was only with an effort that he could keep in all the lashing words that hatred could suggest. He went up the pathway, as slowly as she herself had done, and walked round the house under the veranda. Unknowingly, in putting the easy-chair back into its place, Aunt Anne had pushed aside a little bit of the dining-room curtain. He looked in and saw the table laid, the candles lit, and the bowl of primroses; they were a sign that she had returned, and had not returned empty-handed. He noticed that only one place was laid, and he wondered vaguely what it meant. He thought of Aunt Anne's face, and a sickening feeling came over him. If it had only been a girl's face to which he was going in, a young woman who would come to meet him, and put

her arms round his neck, and call him endearing names, instead of the old woman, shrivelled and wrinkled, to whom in a moment or two he would have to submit himself? He went towards the front door, vaguely determining that he would make her miserable that night. He had a right to everything she could give, but she had no right to intrude herself upon his sight, and he would make her feel it.There was a click at the gate. Some one had entered the garden from the road. He stopped. A boy came up to him through the darkness."Wimple? A telegram, sir. There is sixpence for porterage." He felt in his pocket among the silver the woman had given him in the shed; he found the sixpence, and the boy departed. He opened the yellow envelope, and stood still for a moment, with the telegram in his hand. He guessed what it meant. He took a match from his pocket, struck a light, and, protecting it from the wind with his hat, read:"Died at five o'clock from sudden attack."He screwed it up into a ball and put it carefully into his pocket. His feeling for Aunt Anne changed in a moment: he felt that for this one evening, at any rate, he would endure her--he would even be civil--since it was through her that he was about to gain all he wanted. He looked up at the cottage before he entered it with the almost pleasant feeling with which a prisoner sometimes looks at his cell before he departs into freedom. Aunt Anne was sitting by the drawing-room fire; he lingered by the doorway."You are home then?" he said. There was something exalted in his voice, that at another time would have made

her look up at him lovingly, as he expected to see her do now. But, instead, she answered coldly and without any words of greeting,"Yes, Alfred, I am home.""What did you do in town?" She winked haughtily and did not speak. "What did you do?" he repeated."I did a great deal, and learned many things of which will tell you when you have finished your dinner. It is quite ready--you will be good enough to go to it, Alfred."He looked at her searchingly, and felt a little uneasiness."Are you coming?" he asked, seeing that she did not move."No, I have dined; but I trust you will be satisfied with what I have provided for you," she said, coldly. Something in her manner forced him reluctantly to obey. He went into the dining-room; she shut the door that led into it and waited in the fire-light. Jane came in after she had served the sole, and drew down the blinds and arranged the curtains and threw some wood on the fire."There is only one candle left," she said, "till the two in the dining-room are done with.""It is quite sufficient; you can light it and put it on the table. As soon as you have finished waiting upon Mr. Wimple you will go up-stairs and do what I have told you"--and she was left alone again. While she looked at the fire she could almost imagine Alfred Wimple eating his sole; she knew when it was finished; she listened while Jane entered and pushed his plate through the buttery-hatch; she heard the chicken arrive, and imagined Alfred Wimple solemnly carving it. Her heart beat faster as he went on towards the end of his feast; she was

impatient for the crisis to begin. At last he rose from the table and opened the door, and looked at her curiously. She rose and stood, facing him, on the rug."Did you bring a paper from town, Anne?" he asked, without a word of gratitude for his dainty dinner."Yes, I brought some papers; but you will not require them." She hesitated a moment, and then went on firmly, "I wish you to know, Alfred, that you are about to leave this house never to enter it again.""What do you mean?" he asked, and fastened his eyes on her with only a little more expression in them than usual."I mean that I know everything.""Have you seen my uncle?" he asked, betraying no surprise and not moving from the doorway by which he stood."He is in Scotland for a fortnight--but I know everything. I know that you have insulted and defamed me." She spoke in a low voice and so calmly that he looked at her as if he thought she did not understand the meaning of her own words. "Till I met you," she went on, "I bore an unsullied name and reputation.""What have I done to your name and reputation?" he asked, and closed his lips as though he were almost stupefied with silence. But he went a step towards her, with a shrinking, defensive movement. She retreated towards the table on which the candle stood, a flickering witness of the scene between them--a scene full of shame and suffering and unconfessed fear for her, and of cruelty and loathing and bewilderment for him; but for both strangely destitute of fire and passion."You have ruined both," she said. "You have dared to make a pretence of marriage with me, though you were

married already to an inferior person whom you had known at your lodgings.""Who told you this?""I have seen and heard her. I know everything. You will retire from my presence this evening and never enter it again.""It is not true," he said, shortly, and made another step forwards, and again she retreated."It is true. To-morrow I shall go to Liphook and expose your infamous behavior.""If you dare," he said, almost fiercely, and then, suddenly, he changed his note. "I was obliged to do it, Anne," he added, as if he had suddenly seen that the game was up, and lying would serve him nothing. "But I was fond of you; I told you there were many difficulties the night I asked you to marry me.""No, Alfred"--and for the first time her lips quivered--"you were not fond of me. Even then you were calculating that you would get the money Sir William Rammage had left me in his will.""What should I know about his will?""You were aware of its contents. You went to him in regard to the instructions. I have heard everything from his own lips." He was silent for a moment, and still there was no expression in his dull eyes."Rammage could not tell you that I was married," he said, presently. "Where did you get that ridiculous story from?""It is not a ridiculous story. You have married a common dressmaker, and you presumed after that to insult and impose on me.""What are you going to do--what do you want me to do?" he asked, almost curiously."I shall not treat you with the severity you deserve, but you will leave this house to-night and never enter it again.""I should go to Liphook. You would not like that, Anne.""Alfred," she said, indignantly, "I could not accept shame and degradation, even from a man I love. Besides, I have no longer any love for you. You will not dare to offer me that. Every moment that you stay in my presence is an insult. I must insist on your leaving this house at once.""Where am I to go?" he asked, still curiously."That is for your consideration. You and I are apart.""I have no money," he said, too much astonished, though he made no sign of it, to fight her fairly."You have sufficient money for your present necessities, Alfred. You must not think that you can deceive me any longer. I know everything about you." Suddenly an idea occurred to him, and he asked, in a manner that was almost a threat, though it had no effect upon her,"Have you been to Liphook?""I shall not tell you where I have been, Alfred; I have discovered your baseness, and that is sufficient. I know that our marriage was a mockery, that you dared to offer me what you had already given to another woman. You will go back to her, and at once. You came to me solely for my money, and of that you will not have one penny piece." Still he stood looking at her, speechlessly, while with each word she said his loathing for her increased and his anger grew more difficult to control. His lips parted and showed his teeth, white and clenched together."I will have the money yet; and you shall suffer," he said."You will not," she answered, with a determined wink. "I have taken care of that.""You have left it to me."For a moment she was silent; then a light broke upon her, and she spoke quickly."Alfred," she said, "I know now why you put your name in my will without mentioning the relationship in which I supposed you stood to me, and why you did not put my name in yours, but only said that you left everything to your wife. You were deliberately insulting me, and deceiving me most cruelly even then, on the day I thought most sacred.""I thought you were fond of me," he said, as if he had not heard her last speech. For a moment she could not answer him. Only a few hours before, and the deceptions of which she had known him then to be guilty had but made him dearer to her. She had loved him with all her own strength, and supposed him to possess it. She had idealized him with her own goodness, till she had mistaken it for his. She had never once realized that any comfort she gathered in through him was but her own feeling returning to soothe her a little with its beauty. Now all the glamour had vanished, she loathed and shrank from him, just as he had done from her. It was like a death agony."I was fond of you," she said. "I loved you more than all the world, and I would have given you my life, I would have worked for your daily bread. I wanted nothing in the world but you, Alfred; but I am undeceived. You must go; you must leave me, and at once. I have desired Jane to pack your things--""I shall stay," he said, in a tone that made her look up

quickly. "I do not mean to go until I have the money William Rammage has left you.""You will not have one penny piece of it," she answered."I will," he said, with a quiet, determined look she knew well in his dull eyes. "He has left it to you, and you have left it to me. I mean to have it.""It is no use trying to intimidate me, Alfred," she said; "it is too late. To-morrow I shall make another disposition of my property.""No, you will not," he said; "for I shall not let you out of my sight till you are dead, and you will be dead soon.""You will gain nothing by that, Alfred. William Rammage also will make another disposition of his property to-morrow, for I told him of our marriage.""No, he will not, Anne"--he looked at her with awful triumph--"for he is dead already.""Dead already? You are trying to hoodwink me, Alfred; and if it is true it will not alter my intention or prevent me from carrying it out," she answered, determined not to let him know that her promised wealth had vanished. There was a sound of footsteps, and then the back door closed. Aunt Anne quaked when she heard it, for she knew that Jane had gone home without coming to say the usual good-night. He heard it, too, and his tone altered in a moment."You will have no chance of altering your intention, Anne," he said, and went another step towards her."Why?" she asked, with a fearless wink."Because you shall not live to do it"--and he went a little nearer; still she did not quail for a moment."And you think when I am dead you will go and spend my money with the woman at Liphook?""Yes," he said; "I like her, and I loathe you!" He drew the word out as if he gloated over the sound of it, and the awful look came into his eyes again."Heaven has frustrated your design," she said. "Alfred, if you kill me you will gain nothing by it, and the law will punish you. William Rammage has burned his will. He burned it to-day before my eyes, when he heard that I had disgraced my family and my name by a marriage with you.""Burned it!" he put out his hands, almost as if he were going to strangle her. "Then I shall go; I shall go--when it suits me. I only wanted your money. A young man does not marry an old woman for anything but money, Anne. You are loathsome--loathsome and unwholesome," he repeated, watching the effect of every word upon her--"and I have loathed being with you. I shall go to the other woman. She is my wife; I like her--she is young, not old and loathsome like you! I only married you for the sake of your money." Aunt Anne never moved an inch; she only watched him steadily, as slowly he brought out his sentences, pausing between each one. "You have kept me from her all these months," he went on, concentrating himself on every word he said; "and now you have taken from me the money I deserved for being with you--for being with a wrinkled, withered old woman."She did not move or speak. For a moment he showed his teeth again, then slowly lifted his hands."Anne," he said, "I am going to strangle you"--and he bent over her. He had no intention of doing it, but it pleased him to torture and threaten her."If you dare to touch me--" she said, and a shriek burs from her. There was the sound of a door opening and of footsteps entering."Jane!" shouted Aunt Anne, "Jane!" Jane opened the door and looked in."If you please, ma'am, I heard Mr. Knox, the policeman, go by, and you said you wanted him." Alfred Wimple stared at her in astonishment, and his face blanched. Aunt Anne recovered her self-possession in a moment, though she trembled from head to foot."If you will ask him to stay in the kitchen, I will speak to him," she said. Then she turned to Alfred Wimple again."You will only get yourself laughed at," he said. She was silent a moment; she saw what was in his thoughts and took advantage of it."You do not deserve my clemency," she said, "but I will extend it to you, provided you will go from the house this minute. If you do not I shall take measures to punish you."He was trembling, and could not speak.She opened the door. "Jane," she called, "get Mr. Wimple's portmanteau; have you put everything into it?""Everything but the slippers. It's raining, ma'am," Jane added, not in the least understanding what was going on. But Aunt Anne had shut the door, and turned to Alfred Wimple again."Now you will go!" she said."I cannot go in the rain," he answered, and made a sound in his throat; "you know how bad my cough is. You cannot turn me out in this weather. I was angry just now. I did not mean it.""You will go immediately," she said; "you shall not remain another hour under my roof.""It will kill me to go in this rain," he said, doggedly."You would have killed me when you thought you

would get William Rammage's money by it; you are not fit to remain another hour in the same house with the woman you have wronged, and you shall not. Your coat is in the hall, ready for you"--and she went towards the door. "You will go this very moment, and you will never venture to come near me again.""I have been coughing all day," he almost pleaded, utterly confounded by the turn things had taken."I brought you some lozenges from London, before I knew all your baseness"--and she fumbled in her pocket. "Here they are, and you can take them with you."  She put them down before him on the table, and went slowly out to the kitchen. "Officer," she said, "I will not detain you about the wood this evening. I want you to walk with Mr. Wimple as far as Steggall's, and see him into a wagonette; and there," she added, in a low voice, "is a half-crown to recompense you for your trouble.""It's very wet, ma'am; is the gentleman obliged to go to-night?""Yes"--and, winking sternly, she opened the street door wide. "Yes, he is obliged to go to-night." With a puzzled air Jane picked up the portmanteau. Alfred Wimple took it from her with sulky reluctance. For a moment they all stood looking out at the blackness of the fir-trees and listened to the falling rain. Aunt Anne turned to the little hat-stand in the hall. "Here is an umbrella, Alfred," she said, "and you have your lozenges. Good-night, officer"--and she did not say another word. The two men went out together. She shut the door, double-locked it, and drew the bolts at the top and bottom--it was the last sound that Alfred Wimple heard as he left the cottage.For a moment she stood still, listening to his footsteps;

she waited to hear the click of the gate as it shut behind them. Then, with a strange, dazed manner, as if she were not quite sure that she was awake, she went back to the drawing-room."If you please, ma'am," asked the servant, "isn't Mr. Wimple coming back to-night?--for you won't like being left alone, and I don't know what to do about mother.""You can go to her," Aunt Anne answered. A desperate longing to be alone was upon her; she wanted to think quietly, and it seemed impossible to do so while any one remained beneath the same roof with her. She was impatient for a spell of loneliness before she died. She felt that she was going to die, that she had heard her death-sentence in the shed beyond the valley. There was no gainsaying it--shame and agony were going to kill her. But first she wanted to be alone, to realize all that had happened, and how it had come about. She remembered suddenly, but only for a moment, that Alfred had stated that Sir William Rammage was dead. It was untrue, of course--Alfred could not have known. Besides, William Rammage's life or death concerned her no longer; in his money she took no further interest. She only wanted to be alone and to think. "You can go to your mother, Jane," she repeated; "I wish to be left alone; I have a predilection for solitude.""Yes, ma'am," the girl answered, hesitatingly--"and you said I was to remind you about the wages; I wouldn't, only mother's bad.""I will pay them." She opened her purse and counted out the few silver coins left in it. "I must remain a sixpence in your debt; this is all the change I have for the moment." She put her empty purse down on the table, and knew that she had not a penny left in the

world. For a moment she was silent; she looked puzzled, as if she were doing a mental sum. Then she looked up. "Jane," she said, "you can take the remains of the chicken and the sole to your mother, and anything else that was left from dinner. I shall not require it."  She dreaded seeing anything that Alfred Wimple had touched. She felt that, even down to the smallest detail, she must rid herself of all that had had to do with her life of shame and disgrace, and there was not much time left her in which to do it. She must begin at once: when she had made her life clean and spotless again she would look up and meet death unabashed. "I am ready, ma'am," Jane said, presently, and looked in, with her basket on her arm. Aunt Anne got up and followed her to the back door, in order to see that it was made fast. She shook with fear when she beheld the night. Under that sky and through the darkness Alfred Wimple was making his way to Liphook. The very air seemed to have pollution in it. She retreated thankfully to the covering of the cottage; but the stillness appalled her, once she was wholly alone in it. She stood in the hall for a moment and listened: there was not a sound. She waited for a moment at the foot of the stairs and remembered Alfred's room above, from which every trace of him had been removed, but she had not courage to mount the stairs. She went back into the little drawing-room and shut the door, and taking up her empty purse from beside the candlestick put it into her pocket. As in the morning, her hand touched something that should not be there; but she knew what it was this time, and pulled it out quickly. It was the blue tie that she had kissed in the train. With almost a cry of horror, as if it were a deadly snake, she threw it on the fire and held it

down with the poker, as William Rammage had held down his burning will. As she did so her eyes caught the wedding-ring on her left hand; in a moment she had pulled it off her trembling finger and put it in the fire, too. The flame blazed and smouldered and died away, and her excitement with it. But she had not strength to rise from the floor on, which she had been kneeling; she pulled the cushion down from the back of the easy-chair, and sank, a miserable heap, upon the rug.CHAPTER XXIDURING the days that followed she was shut up in the cottage alone; and no one entered save Jane Mitchell, who came in the morning to light the fire while the remnant of coal lasted, and then was sent away."I shall not require you any more," she said to Lucas, when he came to ask if she wanted the pony. She was covered with shame, and could never drive along the roads again."No, I do not need any provisions," she said to Jane Mitchell, who offered to do some shopping for her; "I have sufficient in the house, and I will not trouble you to come again, Jane, until this day week"--and, having securely fastened the outer doors, she went to the drawing-room."I shall be dead by then," she thought, "and Jane will find me." She was terribly ill, but she did not know it. The cold and the damp of that long day in London and afterwards had laid hold on her. She coughed, and knew that swift pains went through her, and a load was on her chest, but she had no time to notice these things. She had had no food for days. Save a little milk in a cup, and some bread, there was nothing left when Jane Mitchell took her departure. She was being slowly starved; she knew it, and did not care. The awful shame, the misery, the agony, that had overtaken her, stifled all other feelings, and were killing her; she knew that, too, and waited

for death.  Everything had gone out of her life; there was nothing to come into it more. She had been proud of her memories, her unsullied past, her own spotlessness--"Now it is all gone," she said to herself. Every memory was a reproach or was hideous. She sat on one of the chairs before the drawing-room fire-place, and thought and thought and thought, till she could bear it no longer. It seemed as if pain were stamping the life out of her, as if she must be dying; she could feel that she was dying; but life remained by a little, and grew keen, and tortured her again.  The key was turned in the lock of Alfred Wimple's room, but his touch was on everything in the house; and a shrinking from it was her strongest feeling concerning him. Even the sight of a cup from which he had drunk made her shudder more than the bitter cold. "The place is contaminated," she said to herself; "it is poisoned." Sometimes for a few minutes a little tenderness would try to push its way into her heart again, but she shrank from that most of all, and with horror and loathing of herself. She was bowed down with disgrace. She felt as if by even living she was committing an offence against the whole world. There was no one she was fit to see; she had no right of any sort left, no business to be in the light; and there was no place in which she could hide. The nights were worst of all, they were so long and still; and when she had used the two candles left in the dining-room she had no means of shortening them even by an hour. Then, quaking, she lay on the hard sofa in the drawing-room, while the darkness gathered round, and the cold fastened its sharpest fangs into her. In those long hours she suffered not only her own reproaches, but the reproaches of the dead--of the dear ones she had loved in

by-gone years. From every corner they seemed to come--through the closed door and in at the curtained windows, troops of them--till she could bear it no longer, and dared not see the darkness that seemed to be growing white with their faces. But when she closed her eyes it was no better: they came a little closer and touched her with their hands as if they would push her a little farther into space; she was not fit to be among them. The friends of her girlhood, with whom she had played and shared her little secrets, came from the strange world into which they had carried the memory of their own blameless lives. They looked at her reproachfully, and went away; she would never be one of them now, even in eternity. And there was one more; she could see him coming softly through the shadows. He stood beside her, and she cowered and hid her face. Then she knew that he was sorry and understood that, in some grotesque manner, it had been done half for love of him. It comforted her a little to think this, while she turned her face down to the cushion, and sobbed, "Forgive me, I am so ashamed-so ashamed." At last, perhaps, she would ache with fever and cold, and the sharp pains went through her again. She welcomed these almost lovingly, thinking that perhaps they meant the coming of the end; and gradually, as the morning broke, she would doze off into a weary sleep.Sometimes a ghastly fear would seize her that Alfred Wimple was coming back. She could hear his footsteps going round the house; she fancied he was creeping beneath the veranda, that he was trying the window. He wanted to come in and strangle her. She could feel his long hands closing round her throat, and put up her own to draw them, finger by finger, away. It was not the killing she would mind, but the pollution of his touch.Through the day she wandered from room to room--now looking at the table at which he had sat the last night of all; or seeing him, with his back to the buttery-hatch, eating the sole and the chicken she had brought from London; or standing in the doorway, when he came afterwards and asked her for the evening paper. She went to the window and looked at the garden, and the pathway down to the dip; but this was more than she could bear, and she would turn away and sit down by the empty fireplace again. She grew hungry once; a terrible craving for food came over her. She gathered some sticks together, and made a fire, all the time seeing strange visions and grinning fiends that mocked her. She took them to be the punishment of her sin--for sin she counted all that she had done--but in reality they were but signs of the illness and starvation that were contending for the mastery of her. She put a little water on to boil over the blazing sticks, and watched it greedily. She made some tea, with trembling eagerness, and found a new excitement in the strength it gave her; but when the fire had died away, and an hour had passed, she was prostrate again. Gradually she became so ill that she could scarcely drag herself from the drawing-room to the kitchen; the sense of being unfit to stay in the world grew upon her--a dread of seeing people, a haunting fear of some one coming to the door. But no one came through all those terrible days except, once or twice, Jane Mitchell, only to be told that "her services were not required."She thought of Walter and Florence sometimes, and was afraid of their coming back. She could never look them in the face again, or dare to speak to them, or see the children. Just as before she had exaggerated her own importance in the world and her own virtue, now

she exaggerated her own disgrace. She knew what the women she had once despised felt like--"I was never lenient," she said to herself. "I was very harsh, as if  they had gone out of their way to do wrong. I ought to have shown them more clemency"--and as she said this, there came before her the face of Mrs. North. She sat and looked at it. "She was young, and there was excuse for her; and I am old, yet could not forgive her. I will make atonement now. I will write and tell her." Her fingers were so weak she could hardly hold the pen, but she managed to put down a little entreaty for forgiveness. "I ought to have been more gentle to you," she wrote. "I know that now, for I have been as frail--" she stopped and gave a sad little wink at the word--"as you. I know what your sufferings have been by my own, and can pity your humiliation." The letter remained on the table--she almost forgot it; fever and blackness filled her life--she could scarcely walk across the room.The morning brought the postman, with a letter from Walter and Florence. "Would you put a postage-stamp on this for me" she said, giving him the one for Mrs. North. "I will repay you the next time you come; I have no change for the moment."She put the letter with the Monte Carlo post-mark on the mantelpiece, and stood looking at the familiar handwriting, and imagining them together beneath the blue sky, Walter in high spirits, and Florence with her pretty hair plaited round her head. "Dear children!" she said. "He is growing more and more like his father." She closed her eyes for a moment; her limbs swayed and gave way beneath her; and she fell from sheer weakness, and could make no effort to rise. Presently she pulled the cushion down, and lay on the rug again as she had on the

night of Alfred Wimple's departure. She did not know how the day passed--probably most of it went in forgetfulness. The next afternoon came, and she had not noticed the hours.The click of the gate, and footsteps coming towards the house--Aunt Anne struggled up, panting, and listened--a quick knock at the door. She hesitated, raised herself to her feet by the arm-chair, and went out, but could not gather courage to undo the lock."Who is it?" she asked."Let me in," cried a voice that was familiar enough, though she could not identify it. She bowed her head--she was about to be looked at in all her humiliation--and, with trembling hands, opened the door.Mrs. North walked in, with a happy laugh. She was perfectly dressed, as usual, and carried a white basket."My dear old lady," she said, "what is the matter? Your letter frightened me out of my senses. I came off the moment it arrived. You poor old darling, what is the matter? Why, you can't stand--I must carry you." She supported the old lady back into the drawing-room--cheerless and cold enough it looked; that was the first impression Mrs. North had of it--and sat down beside heron the sofa."My love," the old lady said, "I wrote to ask your forgiveness; it was due to you that I should, for I am worse than you. If I was harsh to you once, you may be harsh to me now."Mrs. North pressed her hand."But you are ill, dear Mrs. Wimple," she said.Aunt Anne looked up, with a start of horror."I must ask you never to call me by that name again; it is not mine. It is the symbol of my disgrace. It is

my greatest punishment to remember that I ever for a single moment bore it."  And then she broke down, and, dropping her head on Mrs. North's shoulder, sobbed as if her heart would break."You dear--you poor old dear," Mrs. North said, stroking the scanty gray hair; "I can't bear to see you cry--you mustn't do it; you are ill. Who is here with you?""There is no one here. I am not fit to have any one, with me. I am all alone.""All alone!""Yes"--and she shook her head."Then I shall stay and take care of you, and nurse you,--and make you quite well again. You know I always cared for you, dear old lady"--and Mrs. North kissed her tenderly."And I treated you with so much severity," Aunt Anne said, ruefully."It was very good for me. And now," Mrs. North said, in her sweet, coaxing voice, "put your feet up on the sofa; you are trembling and shaking with cold. Why, you have no fire; let us go into another room where there is one.""There is no fire in the house," Aunt Anne answered. "The weather is very mild; moreover, the coal-cellar needs replenishing. I have not been sufficiently well to do it.""No fire!--and you evidently suffering from bronchitis Oh, you do indeed need to be looked after. Have you no servant here?" Mrs. North was rapidly taking in the whole situation."No, my dear. I wished to be alone.""But this is terrible. We must set everything to rights. You appear to be killing yourself. I don't believe you have anything to eat and drink in the house.""No. I have been too ill to require nourishment; I regret that I cannot ask you to stay."Mrs. North looked at her, almost in despair. Then she took off her hat and gloves, and stood for a moment, a lovely picture in the midst of the dreary room, before she knelt down by Aunt Anne."Let me stay with you," she pleaded, taking the two thin hands in hers; "you were always so good to me. I know that something terrible has happened to you; you shall tell me what it is by and by, when you are better. Now I want to take care of you; and you will let me, won't you?""You shall do anything you like, my dear," Aunt Anne gasped, too weak to offer resistance. Then Mrs. North went out to the fly, which was still waiting at the gate, and found Jane Mitchell, who, attracted by the unusual sight, was talking to the driver."I want some coals sent at once, and a servant.""I was the servant, if you please, ma'am; only Mrs. Wimple said she didn't want me," remarked Jane."Then go in immediately and make a fire," answered Mrs. North, imperiously; "and if there are no coals get some instantly, from your mother's cottage or anywhere else. There must be shops in the village. Order tea and sugar, and everything else you can think of. I will send to London for my maid and cook, to come and help you. Make haste and light a fire in the drawing-room. Where is my shawl? Here, driver, take this telegram; and order these things from the village, and say they are wanted instantly"--she had written the list on the leaf of a note-book; "and this is for your trouble," she added."Now, you dear old lady," she said, going back to her, "let me put this shawl over your feet first, for we must

make you warm. Consider that I have adopted you." In a moment she ran up-stairs, and searched for a soft pillow to put under Aunt Anne's head, and then produced some grapes and jelly from the basket she had brought with her. Aunt Anne sucked in a little of the jelly almost eagerly, and as she did so Mrs. North realized that she had only just come in time. "We must send for a doctor," she thought; "but I am afraid that everything is too late."In twenty-four hours the cottage looked like another place. Mrs. North's cook had taken possession of the kitchen; a comfortable-looking, middle-aged maid went up and down the stairs; the windows were open, though there were fires burning in all the grates. There were good things in the larder, and an atmosphere of home was everywhere. Aunt Anne was bewildered, but Mrs. North looked quite happy."I have taken possession of you," she explained, the second morning after she came. "You ought to have sent for me sooner. In fact, you ought never to have left me. You only got into mischief, and so did I.""Yes, my dear," said Aunt Anne, feebly, "we both did."Mrs. North's lips quivered for a moment."It shows that we ought to have stayed together," she said, half crying. "Perhaps I should have been better if you had not gone. Oh, I shall never forget all you told me this morning." For Aunt Anne, in sheer desperation, as well as in penitent love and gratitude, had poured out the whole history of her life since she left Cornwall Gardens, and Mrs. North's keen perception and quick sympathy had filled in any outlines that had been left a little vague."We know each other so well now, I don't think I ought to call you Mrs. Baines any longer. I want to call you something else.""Let it be anything you like, my dear.""What does the Madon--Mrs. Hibbert, call you? But I know; she calls you 'Aunt Anne.' Let me do the same?""Yes, dear, you shall call me Aunt Anne.""Oh, I am so glad to be with you," Mrs. North went on. "I have longed sometimes to put down my head on your lap and cry. I have been just as miserable as you have--more, a thousand times more; for my shame"--she liked indulging Aunt Anne in her estimate of her own conduct--"has been all my own wicked doing, but yours was only a sad mistake. I don't think we ought to be separated any more, Aunt Anne; we ought to live together, and take care of each other.""My dear," said the old lady, still lying on the sofa, "there will be no living for me; I am going to die.""Oh no," Mrs. North answered, with a little gasp, "you are going to live and be taken care of, and loved properly. I wish the doctor would come again. Then I should speak on medical authority. Go to sleep a little while; I will sit by you."An hour passed. Aunt Anne opened her eyes."Could you put me by the fire, my dear; I am very cold.""Yes, of course I can; but wait a moment. Clarke will come and help me. Clarke," she called, "I want you to come and help me to move Mrs. Baines.""Now you look more comfortable," she said, when it was done. "There is a footstool for your feet, and the peacock beside you to keep you company."Aunt Anne sat still for a moment, looking at the fire."My dear," she said, presently, "I have been thinking of what you said; we have both suffered very much; we ought to be together. Only now you have the hope of a new life before you. But we have both suffered," she repeated.Mrs. North knelt down beside her like a girl. "Suffered," she said. "Oh, dear old lady, if you only knew what I have suffered--the loneliness of my girlhood, the misery of my marriage, the perpetual hunger for happiness, the struggle to get it. And oh! the longing to be loved, and the madness when love came, and then--then--but you know," she whispered, passionately--"I need not go over it; the shame, and the publicity, and the relief I dared not to acknowledge even to myself, when I was set free. And then the awful dread that even he, the man for whom I did it all, would perhaps despise me as the rest of the world did. I am not wicked naturally, I am not, indeed--I don't think any woman on this green earth has loved beautiful things and longed to do righteous things, more than I have, or felt the misery of failure more bitterly.""It will come right now, my love," Aunt Anne said, gently. "You are young; it will all come right. You said you had a telegram, and that he was coming back?""Yes, he is coming back," Mrs. North answered, in a low voice; "but I do not want him to set it right because I did the wrong for him, or just to make reparation from a sense of honor. I do not want to spoil his life; for some people will cut him if he marries me; it is only--only--if he loves me still, and more than all the world, as I do him--that is the only chance of it all coming right. It is time I had a letter--But here is your beef-tea. Let

us try and forget all our troubles, and get a little peace together." She looked up with an April-day smile, took the beef-tea from Clarke, and, holding it before Aunt Anne, watched with satisfaction every mouthful she took."I fear I give you a great deal of trouble," the old lady said, gratefully."It isn't trouble"--and the tears came to her eyes; "it is blessedness. I never had any one before to serve and wait on whom I loved; even my hands are sensible of the happiness of everything they do for you. It is new life. But now we have talked too much, and you must go to sleep.""Yes, my love"--and Aunt Anne put her lead back on the pillow; "I will do as you desire, but you are very autocratic.""Of course." Mrs. North laughed at hearing the familiar word, and then went to the dining-room for a little spell of quietness."Clarke," she said to the maid who had been waiting there, "go in and watch by Mrs. Baines; she must not be left alone."Mrs. North sat down on the chair that Aunt Anne had pulled out for Alfred Wimple after her return from London."Oh, I wonder if it will come right?" she said to herself. "If it does--if it does--if it does! But I ought to have had a letter by this time; it is long enough since the telegram from Bombay. Something tells me that it will come right; I think that is the meaning of the happiness that has forced itself upon me lately. It is no use trying to be miserable any longer. Happiness seems to be coming nearer and nearer. I have a sense of forgiveness in my heart; surely I know what it means? Perhaps, as

Aunt Anne says, all I have suffered has been an atonement for the wrong. One little letter, and I shall be content. The dear old lady shall never go away from me; she shall just be made as happy as possible." She got up and went to the window, and leaned out towards the garden. "Those trees at the end," she said to herself, "surely must hide the way down to the dip, where she listened. It is very lovely to-day"--and she looked up at the sky; "but I wish the doctor would come, I should feel more satisfied." There was a footstep. "Yes, Clarke; is anything the matter? Why have you come? You look quite pale.""Mrs. Baines is going to die, ma'am; I am certain of it.""Going to die?" Mrs. North's face turned white, and she went towards the door."I don't mean this minute, ma'am; but just now she opened her eyes and looked round as if she didn't see, and then she picked at her dress as dying people do at the sheet--it's a sure sign. Besides, she is black round the mouth. I don't believe she will live three days."Mrs. North clasped her hands, with fear."I wish she would stay in bed; the doctor said she ought to do so yesterday; but she seemed better, and begged so hard to come down this morning that I gave way.""It's another sign," said the maid; "they always want to get up towards the last.""The doctor promised he would be here by twelve, and now it is nearly two."He came an hour later. "She must be taken up-stairs at once," he said; so they carried her up, Clarke and the doctor between them, while Mrs. North followed anxiously; and all of them knew that Aunt Anne would never walk down the stairs again.Then a telegram was sent to Florence and Walter, at Monte Carlo.But she was a little better in the evening, and Mrs. North brightened up as she saw it. Perhaps Clarke was a foolish croaker, and signs were foolish things to trouble one's self about. The old lady might live, after all, and there would be some happiness yet."No, Aunt Anne, you are not going to get up yet," she said next morning, in answer to an inquiring look; "you must wait until the doctor has been; remember it is my turn to be autocratic.""Yes, my love"--and she dozed off. Half her time was spent in sleep. Since Mrs. North's arrival there had stolen over her a gradual contentment, as if a crisis had occurred, and the blackness of the past grown dim. Perhaps it was giving place to all that was in her heart, or the sound of Mrs. North's fresh young voice, or the loving touch of her hand. Be it what it might, Alfred Wimple and the misery that he had caused seemed to have gone farther and farther away, while peacefulness was stealing over her. "It is like being with my dear Florence and Walter," she said to Mrs. North once--"only perhaps you understand even better than they could, for you have gone through the pain."Yes, dear Aunt Anne, I have gone through the pain"--and Mrs. North sat waiting for the doctor again, not that she was very uneasy to-day, for the old lady was a little better, and hope grows up quickly when youth passes by.CHAPTER XXIITHE sound of the door-bell, and of some one being shown into the drawing-room."The doctor has come, Aunt Anne," Mrs. North said. "I will invigorate myself with a talk before I bring him to you, and tell him that you are much better."  But instead of the doctor she found a little, dried-up-looking old gentleman standing in the middle of the room, holding his hat and umbrella in one hand. She looked at him inquiringly."I understood that Mrs. Baines was here," he said. Mrs. North looked up, with expectation. "I have come from London expressly to see her on important business. I was solicitor to the late Sir William Rammage," he added. Mrs. North's spirits revived. This looked like a new and exciting phase of the story."Are you Mr. Boughton?""I am Mr. Boughton"--and he made her a formal little bow. "I see you understand--""Oh, yes," she said, eagerly; "and the ex-Lord Mayor was the old lady's cousin. I regret to say that she is very ill in bed, and cannot possibly see you, but I should be happy to deliver any message." Mr. Boughton looked at her, with benevolent criticism, and thought her a most beautiful young woman. She meanwhile grasped the whole situation to her own satisfaction. That horrid Lord Mayor, as she mentally called Sir William, had

probably told his solicitor all about Alfred Wimple; and the little dried-up gentleman before her, who was (as she had instantly remembered) the uncle, had come to see how the land lay. Mrs. North felt as convinced as Sir William had done that the whole affair was a conspiracy between the uncle and nephew, and she promptly determined to make Mr. Boughton as uncomfortable as possible."I quite understand the business on which you have come to see Mrs. Baines," she said, with decision, but with a twinkle of mischief she could not help in her eyes. "You have heard, of course, that the conduct of your delightful nephew, Mr. Alfred Wimple, is entirely found out.""God bless my soul!" said Mr. Boughton, astonished out of his senses. "What has he to do with Mrs. Baines?""You perhaps approved of his romantic marriage?" Mrs. North inquired, politely. She was enjoying herself enormously."His romantic marriage!" exclaimed the lawyer. "I know nothing about it. My dear madam, what do you mean? Is that scoundrel married?""Most certainly he is married," Mrs. North went on; "and, as far as I can gather particulars from Mrs. Baines, your charming niece is a dress-maker at Liphook.""At Liphook!" exclaimed Mr. Boughton, more and more astonished; "why--why--""Where she lives with her grand mother," continued Mrs. North, in the most amiable voice. "Her mother, I understand, lets lodgings in the Gray's Inn Road, and it was Mr. Wimple's kind intention to pay the amount he owes her out of Mrs. Baines's fortune.""Good gracious!--that was the woman who came to me the other day. I never heard of such a thing in my life! How did he get hold of Mrs. Baines?" There was some-

thing so genuine in his bewilderment that Mrs. North began to believe in his honesty, but she was determined not to be taken in too easily."The details are most exciting, and will be exceedingly edifying in a court of justice. Now may I inquire why you so particularly wish to see the old lady?""I came to see her about the late Sir William Rammage," Mr. Boughton said, finding it difficult to collecting scattered wits after Mrs. North's information."Is he really dead, then?" she asked, politely."Most certainly; he died on the fifth, and Mrs. Baines--""She is much too ill to see anybody; and as I understand he burned his will, and has not left her any money, it is hardly worth while to worry her with particulars of his unlamented death.""Burned his will? Yes, for some extraordinary reason he did--so Charles, the man-servant, tells me--he did it in her presence. He had no time to make another, for the agitation caused by her visit killed him.""Or perhaps it was the mercy of Providence," remarked Mrs. North.Mr. Boughton did not heed the remark, but asked, "May I inquire if you are in Mrs. Baines's confidence?""Entirely," she answered, decisively."Then I may tell you that no former will has been found, and she is next-of-kin. There are no other relations at all, I believe, and she will therefore inherit about three times as much as if the burned will had remained in existence.""Really!"--and Mrs. North clapped her hands for joy. And then the tears came into her eyes. "Oh, but it is too late, for she is dying; nothing can save her; she is dying. I have telegraphed to her nephew and niece to

come back from Monte Carlo. She has had a terrible shock, from which she will never recover; and besides that she has virtually starved herself and taken a hundred colds. She has not the strength of a fly left. I know she is dying," Mrs. North added, with a sob she could not help."Don't you think that the good news I bring might save her life?""No; and I am not sure that it would be good to save it, she has suffered so cruelly. What a wicked old man Sir William Rammage was!" she burst out, and looked up sympathetically at Mr. Boughton."He was my client," the lawyer urged."He allowed the poor old lady to starve for want of money, and now that he is dead and she is dying it comes to her.""Yes, it is very unfortunate--very unfortunate.""Everything seems to be a point of view," Mrs. North went on, in the eager manner which so often characterized her. "Poverty is the point of view from which we look at riches we cannot get; from vice we look at virtue which we cannot attain; from hell we look at the heaven we cannot reach. Perhaps Sir William Rammage would appreciate the latter part of the remark now"--she said the last words between laughter and tears."My dear madam," Mr. Boughton exclaimed, in rather a shocked voice, "pray don't let us begin a discussion. To go back to Mrs. Baines, I think if I could see her--""It is quite impossible; you would remind her of your horrible nephew, and that would kill her.""What on earth has she got to do with my nephew?"--and this time his manner convinced Mrs. North that he was not an impostor."Mr. Boughton," she said, gravely, "the old lady is very, very ill. The doctor says she cannot live, and I fear that the sight of you would kill her straight off; but, if you like, I will go and sound her, and find out if she is strong enough to bear a visit from you"--and, the lawyer having agreed to this, Mrs. North went up-stairs."Dearest old lady"--her girlish voice had always a tender note in it when she spoke to Aunt Anne. "I have some good news for you--very good news. Do you think you could bear to hear it?""Yes, my love," Aunt Anne answered, wheezily, "but you must forgive me if I am sceptical as to its goodness."Mrs. North knelt down by the bedside, and stroked the thin hands. "Mr. Boughton is down-stairs; he has come to tell you that Sir William Rammage is dead.""Then it is true," Mrs. Baines said, sadly. "Poor William! My dear, we once lay in the same cradle together, while our mothers watched beside it. What does Mr. Boughton say about Alfred?""He doesn't appear to know anything about his wickedness.""I felt sure he did not; I never believed in the depravity of human nature.""Then how would you account for Mr. Wimple?" she asked, with much interest. The old lady considered for a moment."Perhaps he was my punishment for all I did in the past. I have thought that lately, and tried to bear it--only it is more than I can bear. It has humiliated me too much. Tell me why Mr. Boughton has come; is it anything about Alfred?""Nothing," was the emphatic answer; "and if you see him I advise you not to mention Mr. Wimple's name.""My dear," Aunt Anne said, impressively, "except to yourself, his name will never pass my lips again. I feel that it is desecration to my dear Walter and Florence to mention it in their house. I shall never forgive myself for having brought him into it. But perhaps all I have suffered is some expiation; you and I have both felt that about our frailty"--and she shook her head. "What is the good news?""Mr. Boughton brought it, and it is about Sir William's money." Mrs. Baines was silent for a moment; then she looked up, with a little wink, and a smile came to her lips."I should like to see him," she said. "But will you help me to get up first? I think if I could sit by the open window I should be better.""Perhaps you would, you dear; it's warm enough for summer. Let me help you into your dressing-gown. Stay, you shall wear mine. It is very smart, with lavender bows; quite proper half-mourning for a cousin. There--now--gently"--and she helped the old lady into the easy-chair by the window. It was a long business, but at last she was safely there, with the sunshine falling on her, and the soft lace and lavender ribbons of Mrs. North's dressing-gown about her poor old neck."And are you sure it's good news, my love?" she asked Mrs. North."I am quite sure," Mrs. North answered, as she tucked an eider-down quilt round Aunt Anne. "He has come from London on purpose to bring it to you.""Has he partaken of any refreshment since he arrived?""No; but I will have some ready for him when he comes down from his talk with you. Now you shall have your tête-à-tête"--and Mrs. North went back to the lawyer."You must break it to her very, very gently, and you

mustn't be more than five or ten minutes with her," she said, as she took him up to the bedroom door.Aunt Anne was so much fatigued with the exertion of getting up that she found it a hard matter to receive Mr. Boughton with all the courtesy she desired to show him. She took the news of her fortune very quietly; it did not even excite her."It is too late," she said. "Nothing can solace me for what I have lost; but it will enable me to make provision for my dear Walter and Florence." Her eyes closed; her head sank on her breast; she put out her hand towards the window, as if to clutch at something that was not there.Mr. Boughton saw it, and understood."I cannot repay you for your kindness and consideration," she went on, presently. "Even when I have discharged my pecuniary obligation I shall still remain your debtor. But there are some things I should like to do. I wish Mrs. North to have a sum of money; I will tell her my wishes in regard to it.""Perhaps I had better return in a day or two. You must forgive me for saying, my dear madam, that, with the vast sum that is now at your disposal, you ought to make a will immediately. I could take instructions now if you like.""Instructions?" she repeated, with a puzzled air; "I will give them all to Mrs. North, and you can take them from her. You will not think me inhospitable if I ask you to leave me now, Mr. Boughton? I am very tired. Tell me, did they send for you when William Rammage died?""They telegraphed for me immediately, and when I got to the office I found your letter waiting for me--the one you wrote before you left London, giving me your

address here." She did not hear him; her eyes had closed again, and her chin rested down on the lavender ribbons; the sunshine came in and lighted up her face, and that which Mr. Boughton saw written on it was unmistakable."You are quite right, my dear madam," he said to Mrs. North, as he sat partaking of the refreshment Aunt Anne had devised for him; "it has come too late."He looked at his watch when he had finished. "I have only a quarter of an hour to stay," he said. "Before I go, would you give me some explanation of the extraordinary statements you made on my arrival?""You shall have it," Mrs. North answered, eagerly; "but wait one moment, till I have taken this egg and wine to Mrs. Baines and seen that the maid is with her.""That's a remarkably handsome girl," the lawyer thought, when she had disappeared; "I wonder where I have heard her name before, and who she is?" But this speculation was entirely forgotten when he heard the story of his nephew's doings of the last few months. "God bless my soul!" he exclaimed; "why, he might be sent to prison with hard labor--and serve him right, the scoundrel!""I am delighted to hear you say it," Mrs. North answered, impulsively. "Please shake hands with me. I am ashamed to say I thought it all a conspiracy, even after you came, and that is why I was so disagreeable.""Conspiracy, my dear madam?--why, the last thing I did to Wimple was to kick him out of my office; and I have been worried by his duns ever since. As for the will she made in his favor, get it destroyed at once or he may give us no end of trouble yet. She has virtually given me instructions for a new one. I told her I would come in a day or two, but I think it would be safer to

come to-morrow. It will have to be rather late in the day, I am afraid, but I can sleep at the inn. In the meantime get the other will destroyed. Why, bless me! if she died to-night it might make an awful scandal; I would not have it happen for all I am worth."Mr. Boughton departed; and the doctor came, and gave so bad a report that Mrs. North sent off yet another telegram to Walter and Florence--this time to London--asking them not to waste a moment on their arrival, but to come straight to Witley. And then the second post brought her the morning's letters which had been sent on. Among them was one with the Naples post-mark, which she tore open with feverish haste and could scarcely read for tears of joy."I could not write before," it said. "I am detained here by a friend's illness; but now that I am thus far I send you just a line to say I shall be with you soon, and shall never leave you again. I hate to think it all. The fault was mine, and the suffering has been yours. But I love you, and only live to make you reparation.""It is too much happiness to bear," she said, with a sob. "It is all I wanted, that he should love me--I must write this minute, or he will wonder"--and she got out her blotting-case, just as she did at the hotel at Marseilles--it seemed as if that scene had been a suggestion of this--and, kneeling down by the table, wrote,"I am here with Mrs. Baines, and she is dying. I have just--just had your letter. Oh, the joy of it! What can I say, or do?--you know everything that is in my heart better than words can write down."She sealed it up; and, seizing her lat, went once round the garden, for the cottage seemed too small a house hold so great a happiness as that which had come upon

her. She looked up to the sky, and thought how blessed it was to be beneath it, and away at the larches and fir-trees, and wondered if he and she would ever walk between them. Something told her that they would if--if all came right, if she found that he loved her so much that he could not live without her. They would lead such ideal lives; they would do their very best for everyone, and make so many people happy, and cover up the past with all the good that love would surely put it into their hearts to do. "It would be too much to bear," she said to herself; "it is too much to think of yet--I will go back to my dear old lady, and comfort her."Aunt Anne was much better for her interview with Mr. Boughton. The excitement had done her good, and some of her little consequential ways had returned with the knowledge of her wealth."I am glad to see you, my love," she said to Mrs. North; "I have many things to discuss with you if you will permit me to encroach on your good-nature. Would you mind sitting down on the footstool again beside me, as you did yesterday?" The maid had lifted her on to the old-fashioned sofa at the foot of the bed. She was propped up with pillows, and looked so well and comfortable it seemed almost possible that she might live."I will," Mrs. North answered, still overcome with her own thoughts--"I will sit at your feet, and receive your royal commands. But first permit me to say that you are looking irresistible--my lavender ribbons give you a most ravishing appearance.""You are in excellent spirits," Aunt Anne said, with a pleased smile; "and so am I," she added. "It has done me a world of good to hear that William Rammage's iniquitous intentions have been frustrated.""I trust he is aware of it," Mrs. North answered, "and that his soul is delightfully vexed by the enterprising Satan.""My love," said the old lady, with a shocked wink, "you hardly understand the purport of your own words.""Yes, I do," Mrs. North said, emphatically, "but now I want to speak about something much more important. I hope you are going to get well--yes, in spite of all the shakes of your dear old head; and that you are going to live to be a hundred and one, in order to scold me with very long words when I offend you.""I will endeavor to do so, my love; but I hope that someone else will do it better"--she stopped and closed her eyes."I believe you are a witch, and you know about my letter. It has just come, and has made me so happy," Mrs. North said, between laughing and crying."What does he say?" the old lady asked, without opening her eyes."He says he is coming," Mrs. North answered, almost in a whisper. "It's almost more than I can bear. I think it will all come right. The other was never a marriage--it was cruel to call it one; it was a girl's body and soul made ready for ruin by those who persuaded her"--and she put her face down."My dear, I understand now; I think I was very unsympathetic. But purity counts before all things"--and Aunt Anne's lips quivered. "Tell me, my love, have you heard--I know it is painful to you to hear his name, but have you heard anything of Mr. North lately?" Mrs. North looked up with a mischievous twinkle in her eye which a moment before had been full of tears, and answered, demurely, "I am told that he is casting his eyes on an amiable lady of forty-five. She is the sister of an eminent Q. C., has

read Buckle's 'History of Civilization,' and her favorite fad is the abolition of capital punishment. But I don't want to talk of my affairs, Aunt Anne, I want to talk of yours--they are more momentous." Mrs. North prided herself on picking up Aunt Anne's words, and using them with great discretion."Yes, my love, I am most grateful to you.""I am certain--as I tell you--that you are going to live and get well." Mrs. North meant her words at the moment, for, with the sweet insolence of youth, she was incredulous of death until it was absolutely before her eyes. "But at the same time," she went on, "now that you are enormously rich, you ought to take precautions in case of an accident. If the cottage were burned down to-night, and we were burned with it, who would inherit your money?""I told Mr. Boughton that I would give my instructions to you, and he is coming the day after to-morrow.""But have you destroyed the will you made in favor of Alfred Wimple?""I have not got it; he took it away with him." Mrs. North looked quite alarmed."We must make another, this minute," she said; "if the conflagration took place this evening he would get every penny. Let me make it this minute. I can do it on a sheet of note-paper. Don't agitate your dear old self, I shall be back directly"--and in a moment she had fled down-stairs and returned with her blotting-book, and once more she knelt down by a table to write. "You want to leave everything to the Hibberts, don't you?""Yes; but if you would permit me, my love, I should like to leave you something.""Then I couldn't make the will, for it would not be

legal; besides, I am rich enough, you kind old lady. Shall I begin?""Stop one moment, my dear; will you give me a little sal volatile first, and let me rest for five minutes?" She closed her eyes, but it was not to sleep; she appeared to be thinking of something that disturbed her. When she looked up again she was almost panting with excitement as well as weakness, and there was the fierce, yet frightened, look in her eyes that had been in them when she opened the front door to turn Alfred Wimple out of the house."I want you to do something for me," she said, almost in a whisper--"I want you to have a sum of money, and to get it to him"--she could not make herself utter his name--"on condition that he goes out of the country with it. Let him go to Australia with the woman--""Yes," Mrs. North said, seeing she hesitated."She is not in his position, and could never be received in society.""No, dear," Mrs. North said, reflecting that Mr. Wimple's position was not particularly exalted."I want him to go out of the country," Aunt Anne went on--"as far away as possible; I cannot breathe the same air with him, or bear to think that he is beneath the same sky. It is pollution; it is hurrying me out of life; it is most repugnant to me to think that when I am dead he will frequently be within only a few miles of this cottage and of my dear Walter and Florence"--she stopped for a moment, and shuddered, and put her thin hands, one over the other, under her chin. "When I am dead and buried," she went on, "I believe I should know if his body was put underground too in the same country with me, and feel the desecration. It has killed me; it has made me

eager to die. But I want to know that he will go away--that none of those I care for will ever see his face again; it will be a sacrilege if he even passes them in the street. I want him to have a sum of money, and to go away.""I will take care that he has it," Mrs. North said, gently, "I will speak to the Hibberts. But, Aunt Anne," she asked, "don't you think you might forgive him? He shall go away, but you would not like to die without forgiving him?" Mrs. North did not for a moment expect her to do it, or even wish it, but she felt it almost a duty to say what she did from a little notion, as old-fashioned as one of Aunt Anne's perhaps, about dying in charity with all men."No, you must not ask me to do that"--and her voice was determined. "I cannot; it was too terrible.""And I am very glad," Mrs. North said, having eased her conscience with the previous remark--"a slightly revengeful spirit comforts one so much.""Don't let us ever speak of him again, even you and I. I want to shut him out of the little bit of life I have left.""We never will," Mrs. North said. "Let this be the Amen of him. Now I will make the will. Here is a sheet of note-paper and a singularly bad quill pen.""This is the last Will and Testament of me, Anne Baines (sometime called Wimple). I revoke all other wills and codicils, and give and bequeath everything that is mine or may be mine to my dear nephew and niece, Walter and Florence Hibbert."The maid came and stood on one side and Mrs. North on the other, while Aunt Anne gave a little wink to herself, and pushed aside the end of the lavender ribbon lest

it should smudge the paper, and signed Anne Baines, looking at every letter as she made it with intense interest."I am glad to write that name once more," she said, and fell back, with a sigh.CHAPTER XXIIIIT was 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 as if 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 cars, but there was no sound of a carriage, no sign of Walter and Florence. Then, for a moment, she remembered her letter, but she was afraid to let herself linger over it while Aunt Anne up-stairs 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 that 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-colored 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-colored 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 down-stairs. 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 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 sun-shine. 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 now 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. There was the clear note of a bird, but not another sound. The bird ceased, and 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 ENDAdvertisement included at the end of Mrs. Clifford's Aunt Anne.Advertisement included at the end of Mrs. Clifford's Aunt Anne.Advertisement included at the end of Mrs. Clifford's Aunt Anne.Advertisement included at the end of Mrs. Clifford's Aunt Anne.Advertisement included at the end of Mrs. Clifford's Aunt Anne.Advertisement included at the end of Mrs. Clifford's Aunt Anne.Advertisement included at the end of Mrs. Clifford's Aunt Anne.Advertisement included at the end of Mrs. Clifford's Aunt Anne.Advertisement included at the end of Mrs. Clifford's Aunt Anne.Circulation record for The Craddock Circle pasted into the
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