CHAPTER X.

The 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 dressmaker at Liphook.”

“At Liphook!” exclaimed Mr. Boughton, more and more astonished; “why—why——”

“Where she lives with her grandmother,” 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 something 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 collect his 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 burnt his will, and has not left her any money, it is hardly worth while to worry her with particulars of his unlamented death.”

“Burnt 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 burnt 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 almost a sob.

“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 her life, 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 the 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 upstairs.

“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 downstairs; 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 labour—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 favour, 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 in 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 postmark, 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 I shall never leave you again. I hate to think of 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 Marseille—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 it down.”

She sealed it up; and, seizing her hat, went once round the garden, for the cottage seemed too small a house to 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 every one, 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 endeavour to do so, my love; but I hope that some one 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 eyes, 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 favourite 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 favour 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 downstairs 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 own 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 were 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.

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