CHAPTER VII.

Florence’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, for he was quite alive to the duties of domesticity. In his short married life it had been an everlasting irritation to him that his wife was a slattern and wholly indifferent about her home. It had made him keen to observe the ways of other women; though the sight of a well-kept house always depressed him a little, for it set him thinking of the denials in his own life, of what he might have had and could have been; it made him also a little extra deferential and gracious to the woman who presided over it. He was so to Florence this morning. 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 editing 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 much 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 had been her desire that he should marry again. She had told him that it was foolish not to do so, that she could die happy if he had a wife to take care of him. But he never answered a word. “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 nice girl in her twenties, fond of pleasure, would brighten up the old lady.” 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, as a man is, if he chooses, till he is fifty; 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. It was absurd to suppose that a woman should know it without any direction from his sex, and he was now the proper person to give it. “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 excellent companions 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 grey 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 on 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 dare say 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. It was so foolish when women did not recognize it.

“Very well then, you will go on Saturday? Good-bye. Oh, 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 a passage in Mrs. Hibbert’s note to her husband:—

“——_he is a kind old fogey, 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?” he said to himself. The word haunted him all day.

* * * * *

Meanwhile Aunt Anne was deeply engaged. She was delighted with 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 kerbstone 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 last 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 that she could enjoy her own superior condition without compunction.

At Waterloo, with an air of decision that showed a perfect knowledge of her own generosity, she gave the cabman sixpence over his fare and walked slowly into the station. 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 bookstall and bought a _Times_ and a _Morning Post_. The one cost threepence and the other was fashionable. She disliked penny papers. 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 get you a few papers, hoping they would beguile you on your journey,” she said.

Mr. Wimple was as grave as ever and as rickety 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 them 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 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 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 leant 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-bye,” she said excitedly. “Good-bye; 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.

[Illustration]