CHAPTER I.

Portsea 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, 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 the 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 was 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 distantly, “but I can make them suit my purpose for a week.”

“Very well, ma’am,” and Mrs. Hooper gave way, overawed 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 haughtily, 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. They 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 a 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,” she said, and 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 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; our mothers were sisters,” Mrs. Baines said 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;” and still 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.”

“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 inquire 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 for some time 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 movement of satisfaction to her left eye; her voice was unsteady when she spoke.

“Mr. Boughton,” she said, “I know Sir William will be most 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, would you like to have a cheque 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 cheque.

“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 indebted 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, on her way back, to put on the little dinner table in Portsea Place, 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 and 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 him, 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 spoke solemnly.

“Whom did you see?”

“I saw a solicitor, Mr. Boughton.”

“That is 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 the 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 asked gently; “I have not vexed you?”

“No;” and there was a long pause. Then he spoke again.

“Anne,” he said, and went a little further 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 words to speak.

“My dear one,” she said, “is it really true that all your heart is mine; you are 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 dear one; but all my life is yours, Alfred, all my life, and the truest love that woman can give I will give you,” and 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 forbade almost 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 smile that came and went about her mouth had something in it that was pathetic rather than ridiculous. She had conjured a grey wedding-dress from somewhere, and a grey 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 and more 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-wheel cab alone, the biting wind swept maliciously over her face, and quickly she pulled up the window. It was but 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: and 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 to be 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 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?”

“No,” and they walked on in silence. Then she spoke again, her voice tremulous with emotion—

“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; it is the day of my life,” she whispered to herself.

“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 to put it there, Alfred.”

He turned and looked at her with an expression that seemed half shame and half shrinking.

“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,” Mr. 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 your chambers again to-day?” she asked meekly.

“Yes,” he answered. “I shan’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 sat 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, and 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, 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 arm round her and his face touched her head, but it was 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. “You are a fool to care about me.” Then she raised her head and the bright smile came back.

“Oh yes,” she said joyfully, “you are much too good. It shall be the study of my life to be good enough for you.” The enthusiasm of youth seemed to flash back upon her for a moment. “I am not a fool to care for you. I am the wisest woman on earth. My darling Alfred,” she went on after a pause, “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 to-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 might 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 landlady and the servant will witness them.” He produced two long envelopes from his pocket, and Mrs. Hooper and the servant were called.

“Alfred,” Aunt Anne said, when they were alone again, and she 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 blush came upon the withered cheek—“your wife now.” Mr. Wimple put his lips together again after his favourite 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 drily; “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—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 the bitter disappointment and hopelessness that had suddenly opened itself out before her.

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