CHAPTER VI.

Then 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 tablecloth 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 favourite 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 when 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 favour, “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 cheque. 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 possible reason of Aunt Anne’s collapse at Mrs. North’s, a catastrophe 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, for she was always careful, and now especially, in order 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 sincerely 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 remarkable silence of 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, 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 upstairs 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 tortoiseshell 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 Centre_.

“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 leisure time of the day. With your permission I will leave you now, I have some business to transact 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. You 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 told 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 altogether. Good-bye, 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 Centre_ 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 mother’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 cheque, 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 cheque. 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 mine 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 showed 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.”

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