CHAPTER XI.

The grey 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 waggonette 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 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 cosy that night; they would linger over their food, and Aunt Anne should talk of bygone 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 outdoor 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 him 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 upstairs 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 upstairs “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 Walter’s; 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 waggonette 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 Rammage 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 has 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 had not gone to Guildford. Still, what could keep her out so late? The roads were dark and lonely, she knew no one in the neighbourhood. It was to be hoped that nothing had 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 cannot 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 a little 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. “Has anything occurred to worry you? Where 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 very 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 some one.” 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 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 calm 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 farther.

“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 dreamt 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. She 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 surprised, 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 help-meet 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. Then bewildered Florence broke out with—

“But, Aunt Anne, but, Aunt Anne——”

“Well, my love?” the old lady asked with calm dignity.

“He—he is much younger than you,” she said at last, bringing out her words slowly, and hating herself for saying them.

“Age is not counted by years, my darling; and if he does not feel my age a drawback, why should I count his youth one? He loves me, Florence, I know he loves me,” Aunt Anne 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, and——”

“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 Mrs. Baines 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 so depraved that I would sell myself for comfort and luxury? If he can face poverty with me, I can face it with him.”

“Yes, yes, but——” The old lady did not heed her, and went on breathlessly—

“I did think, Florence, that you would have been kind to me, and 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——”

“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 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 dreamt 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, grateful for even that straw of comfort; “I knew you would be staunch 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 on to 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 ways, “and request Jane to bring me my cap from upstairs.”

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 flown upstairs 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 over the past weeks 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 Kilburn 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, my darling, not even from you.” She got up tremblingly. “I must retire; 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 upstairs to her room. Mrs. Baines stood formally in the doorway.

“Good-night, my love,” she said, with cold disappointment in her voice.

“May not I help you, Aunt Anne?” Florence asked, almost entreatingly.

“No, my love, I must be alone,” Mrs. Baines repeated firmly, and shut the door.

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