CHAPTER I.

r. and Mrs. Walter Hibbert had been married just four months when Aunt Anne first appeared on the scene. They were at Brighton, whither they had gone from Friday to Tuesday, so that Mr. Hibbert might get braced up after a hard spell of work. Besides doing his usual journalism, he had been helping a friend with a popular educational weekly, and altogether “had slaved quite wickedly,” so his wife said. But he had declared that, though he found matrimony, as far as he had gone, very delightful, it had to be paid for, especially at the beginning of its career, when it ran into furniture, linen, plate, and expensive presents to a dear little wife, though the expensiveness of the last he generously kept to himself. So it resulted in the visit to Brighton. They spent the happiest four days in the world there, and felt quite sad when Tuesday morning arrived. But they wisely did their best to forget that the evening train would take them back to London, and resolved that their last day should pass merrily.

“Suppose we have a long drowsy morning on the pier,” she suggested; “nothing is nicer or more restful than to listen to the band and look down into the water. We needn’t see the horrid people—indeed, if we sit on one of the end seats and keep our faces turned seawards, we can forget that they even exist.”

Mr. Hibbert solemnly considered the proposal.

“The only drawback is the music, it makes so much noise—that’s the worst of music, it always does,” he said sadly. “Another thing is, that I cannot lie full length on the pier as I can on the beach.”

“Very well, then we’ll go to the beach. The worst of the beach is, that we can’t look down into the water, as we can from the end of the pier.”

“That’s true; and then there are lots of pretty girls on the pier, and I like to see them, for then I know that there are some left—for the other fellows,” he added nobly.

So they went to the pier, and sat on one of the side seats at the far end and looked down into the water, and blinked their happy eyes at the sunshine. And they felt as if all the beautiful world belonged to them, as if they two together were being drawn dreamily on and on into the sky, and sea, and light, to make one glorious whole with happy nature; but a whole in which they would be for ever conscious of being together, and never less sleepy or blissful than now. This was Walter’s idea, and he said it all in his dear romantic way that generally ended up with a laugh. “It would never do, you know, because we should get nothing to eat.”

“Don’t,” she said. “That is so like you; you always spoil a beautiful idea, you provoking thing,” and she rubbed her chin against the back of the seat and looked down more intently at the water. Without any one in the least suspecting it, he managed to stoop and kiss her hand, while he pretended to be trying to see something, that of course was not there, at the top of a wave.

They were having a delightful morning, they lived in every moment of it, and wished it would never come to an end; still, when it did, there would be a delicious luncheon to go back to—very large prawns, roast chicken and green peas, and an enormous dish of ripe figs, which both their souls loved. After all, Walter thought, the world was not a bad place, especially when you had a wife who adored you and thought that everything you did bore the stamp of genius.

The band was playing a waltz, though to this day they do not know it. All manner of people were passing to and fro, but they did not notice them.

“I should like to stay here for ever,” Mrs. Hibbert said, with a sweet sigh of content. “Do you know, Walter,” she went on suddenly after a pause, “it will be four months to-morrow since we were married? Time seems to have flown.”

“By Jove! it really is a miracle what those four months have done with themselves,” he answered, looking up for a moment; as if to be sure that Time was not a conjurer standing before him about to hand the four months from beneath a handkerchief, with a polite bow and the remark that they would have to be lived through at the ordinary rate.

A spare-looking old lady, dressed in black, passed by, but he did not notice her.

“You see,” he went on, with his eyes fixed on a sailing boat in the distance, “if things were always going to be——”

At the sound of his voice the lady in black, who was only a few yards off, stopped, listened, hesitated, and, turning back, stood before him. He recognized her in a moment.

“Aunt Anne!” he exclaimed. His voice was amiable, but embarrassed, as if he did not quite know what to do next.

“My dear Walter,” she said, with a sigh and in a tone of great relief, “I am so glad to find you; I went to your lodgings, I saw your name and address in the visitors’ list yesterday, but you were out; then I thought I might find you here. And this is your wife? My dear Florence, I am so glad to see you.”

Till that moment Mrs. Walter Hibbert had never heard of the existence of Aunt Anne, but Aunt Anne had evidently heard of Mrs. Hibbert. She knew her Christian name, and called her by it as naturally as if she had been at her christening. She stretched out a small hand covered with a black thread glove as she spoke, and held Florence’s fingers affectionately in hers. Florence looked at her a little wonderingly. Aunt Anne was slight and old, nearly sixty perhaps. All over her face there were little lines that crossed and re-crossed, and branched off in every direction. She had grey hair, and small dark eyes that blinked quickly and nervously; there appeared to be some trifling affection of the left eye, for now and then, as if by accident, it winked at you. The odd thing was that, in spite of her evident tendency to nervous excitement, her shabby black satin dress, almost threadbare shawl, and cheap gloves, there was an air of dignity about the spare old lady, and something like determination in her kindly voice that, joined to her impulsive tenderness,

made you quickly understand she would be a very difficult person to oppose.

“Dear boy,” she said gently to Walter, “why didn’t you write to me when you were married? You know how glad I should have been to hear of your happiness.”

“Why didn’t you write to me, Aunt Anne?” he asked, gaily turning the tables.

“Yes, I ought to have done so. You must forgive me, dears, for being so remiss,” she said, looking at them both, “and believe me that it was from no lack of affection. But,” she went on quickly, “we must not waste our time. You are coming to Rottingdean with me, and at once. Mr. Baines is longing to see you both.”

“But we can’t go now, Aunt Anne,” Walter declared in his kindest manner; “we must get back to the lodgings. We told them to have luncheon ready at one o’clock, and to-night we go home. You must come and lunch with us.”

“That is impossible, dear Walter; you are coming back with me.”

“It can’t be done to-day,” he said regretfully.

“My dear Walter,” she answered, with a look of dismay and in a voice that was almost pained, “what would your uncle say if he heard you? I could not possibly return without you.”

“But he has never seen me, Aunt Anne.”

“That is one reason why he would never forgive me if I did not take you back.”

“But it is so far, and we should be all day getting there,” Walter objected a little helplessly, for he felt already that Aunt Anne would carry her point.

“It is only to Rottingdean”—she spoke with hurt surprise—“and we will drive. I saw a beautiful fly as I was coming on to the pier, and engaged it. I know you too well, my darling, to think that you will refuse me.”

Her manner had changed in a moment; she said the last words with soft triumph, and looked at Florence. The sight of the young wife seemed to be too much for her; there was something like a tear in the left eye, the one that winked, when she spoke again.

“I must give her a kiss,” she said tenderly, and putting out her arms she gathered the girl to her heart. “But we must make haste,” she went on quickly, hurrying over the fag end of her embrace, as if she had not time to indulge in her feelings much as she desired to do so. “Mr. Baines will wonder what has happened to us. He is longing to see you;” and without their knowing it, she almost chased them along the pier.

Then Walter, thinking of the prawns and the chicken and the large dish of ripe green figs, made a wild struggle to get free.

“But really, Aunt Anne,” he said firmly, “we must go back to the lodgings. Come and lunch with us now, and let us go and see Mr. Baines another time; I dare say we shall be at Brighton again soon. We will make a point of coming now that we know you are here, won’t we, Floggie?” and he appealed feebly to his wife.

“Yes, indeed we will,” Florence assured her.

“Dear children,” Aunt Anne laughed, “I shall not take any excuse, or think of letting you escape now that I have found you.” There was an unexpected brightness in her manner, but there was no intention of letting them go.

“Besides, there may be important letters at the lodgings, and I ought to do a bit of work;” but there was evident invention in Walter’s voice, and she did not slacken her pace. Still, as if she wanted him to know that she saw through his excuses, she looked at him reproachfully, and with a determination that did not falter.

“It would be impossible for me to return without you,” she said, with extreme gravity; “he would never forgive me. Besides, dear children, you don’t know what a pleasure it is to see you. I could not let you go just yet. My heart gave a bound as I recognized Walter’s voice,” she went on, turning to Florence; “he is so like what his dear father used to be. I knew him directly.”

They were already by the turnstile. They felt helpless. The old lady with the thin shoulders and the black shawl loosely floating behind seemed to be their master: they were like children doing as they were told.

“Here is the fly. Get in, my darlings,” she said triumphantly, and Florence meekly took her place. “Get in, dear Walter,” she repeated with decision, “I will follow; get in,” and he too obeyed. Another moment and they were going towards Rottingdean.

The old lady looked relieved and pleased when they were well on their way.

“It is a lovely drive,” she said, “and it will do you far more good than sitting on the pier. I am so glad to have you with me, dear children.” She seemed to delight in calling them children, and it was odd, but each time that she said the word it seemed to give her a stronger hold on them. She turned to Florence.

“Are your father and mother quite well, my dear?” she asked, and waited with polite eagerness for a reply.

Walter put his hand on his wife’s.

“She only has a mother,” he said gently.

Aunt Anne looked quite penitent. She winked with her left eye and was silent for a moment or two, almost as if she meditated shedding a tear for the defunct father of the niece by marriage whom she had never seen in her life before to-day. Suddenly she turned the subject so grotesquely that they nearly laughed.

“Are you fond of chocolates, my darling?”

“Yes——” Florence hesitated a minute and then said softly, “Yes, Aunt Anne, very”—she had not had occasion to give the old lady any name in the few words she had spoken previously.

“Dear child, I knew you would be,” Aunt Anne said, and from under her shawl she produced a box covered with white satin paper and having on its lid a very bright picture of a very smart lady. “I bought that box of chocolates for you as I came along. I thought Florence would be like the picture on the lid,” she added, turning to her nephew; “and she is, don’t you think so, Walter dear?”

“Yes, Aunt Anne, she is—it is a most beautiful lady,” he answered, and he looked fondly at his wife and drew up his lips a little bit in a manner that Florence knew meant, in the language only she and he in all the wide world understood, that in his thoughts he kissed her.

Aunt Anne was a dear old lady, Florence thought, and of course she liked, and always would like, any relation of Walter’s; still, she did so wish that on this particular day, their last by the sea together, Aunt Anne had kept her distance. Walter was so pale when they left town, but since Friday, with nothing to do but to get brown in the sun, he had been looking better and handsomer every day, and this last one they had longed to enjoy in their own lazy way; and now all their little plans were spoilt. To-morrow he would be at his office: it was really too bad, though it was ungrateful to think it, perhaps, with the remembrance of Aunt Anne’s embrace fresh upon her, and the box of chocolates on her lap. Still, after all, she felt justified, for she knew that Walter was raging inwardly, and that if they were alone he would use some short but very effective words to describe his own feeling in respect to the turning up of Aunt Anne. Only he was so good, so gentle and considerate, that, no matter what his thoughts might be, of course he would not

let Aunt Anne feel how much her kindness bothered him.

Meanwhile, they jogged along in the open fly towards Rottingdean. A long, even road, with a view on the right of the open sea, on the left alternate high hedges and wide meadows. The grass on the cliffs was green; among the grass were little footpaths made by wandering feet that had diverged from the main road. Florence followed the little tracks with her eyes; she thought of footpaths like them far away, not by the sea, but among the hanging woods of Surrey. She and Walter had sauntered along them less than a year ago. She thought of home, of the dear mother busy with her household duties, but making time between to write to the boys in India; of the dear, noisy boys who suddenly grew to be young men and vanished into the whirl of life; of the dirty old pony carriage in which she had loved to drive her sweetheart; and when she got to this point her thoughts came to a full stop to think more particularly of the pony. His name was Moses, and he had liked being kissed and eating sugar. She remembered, with a pang of self-reproach, that in the last months

before her marriage she used to forget to kiss Moses, though she often stood absently stroking his patient nose. She had sometimes even forgotten his morning lump of sugar in the excitement of reading the letter that the early post never failed to bring.

“Are you fond of scenery, dear?” Aunt Anne asked.

With a start Florence looked round at the old lady, at Walter, at the shabby lining of the fly.

“Yes, very,” she answered.

“I knew it by the expression of your face when you looked at the sea. Mr. Baines says it is a lovely view.”

Why should Mr. Baines be quoted? Florence wondered. She looked again—an open sea, a misty horizon, a blue sky, and the sun shining. A fine sea-view, certainly, and a splendid day, but scenery was hardly the term to apply to the distance beside them.

“Is Mr. Baines very fond of the sea?” she asked. She saw that Aunt Anne was waiting for her to speak, and she said the first words that presented themselves.

“Yes, my love, he delights in scenery. You must call him Uncle Robert, Florence. He would be deeply wounded to hear you say Mr. Baines. Neither he nor I could think of Walter’s wife as anything but our niece. You will remember, won’t you, my love?” Aunt Anne spoke in the gentle but authoritative voice which was, as they had already found, difficult to resist.

“Yes, Aunt Anne, of course I will if you wish it; it was only because as yet I do not know him.”

“But you soon will know him, my love,” the old lady answered confidently; “and when you do, you will feel that neither he nor I could think of Walter’s wife except to love her. Dear child, how fond he will be of you!” And she put her hand affectionately on Florence’s while she turned to Walter and asked suddenly—

“Walter dear, have you got a white silk handkerchief for your neck?”

He looked at her for a moment, almost puzzled, wondering whether she wanted to borrow one.

“No, Aunt Anne, I fear I have not.”

She dived down into her pocket and pulled out a little soft packet. “I thought it possible you hadn’t one,” she said joyfully, “so I bought this for you just now;” and she tucked the little parcel into his hand.

It took him by surprise, he did not know what to say. He felt like the schoolboy she seemed to take him for, and a schoolboy’s awkwardness overtook him; he smiled, nodded mysteriously, and put the handkerchief into his pocket. His manner delighted Mrs. Baines.

“He is just the same,” she said to Florence; “I remember him so well when he was only ten years old. He had the most lovely eyes I ever saw. Walter, do you remember my visit to your father?—Ah! we have reached the hill, that’s why he’s going so slowly,” she exclaimed excitedly. “We shall be there in five minutes. Now we are close to the village. Drive through the street, coachman,” she called out, “past the church, and a little way on you will see a house standing back from the road with a long garden in front and a white gate. Florence dear,” she asked, still keeping her eyes fixed on the driver, “do you like preserve?”

“Like—do you mean jam?” Florence asked, bewildered by another sudden question.

“Yes, my love, preserve,” Aunt Anne answered pointedly, as if she resented the use of the shorter word.

“Yes, I like it very much,” her newly found niece said humbly, feeling that she had been rebuked.

“We have quantities of fruit in our garden, and have been preserving it all the week. It is not very firm yet, but you must have some to take back with you.”

“I am afraid we shall hardly be able to carry it,” Florence began timidly, feeling convinced that if she were made to carry jam to London it would be fatal to the rest of her luggage.

“I will pack it for you myself,” Aunt Anne said firmly. She was watching the driver too intently to say more. She did not speak again till they had driven down the one street of Rottingdean, past the newly built cottages and the church, and appeared to be getting into another main road. Then suddenly she rose triumphantly from her seat. “There it is, coachman, that little cottage to the left. Dear Walter—how pleased your uncle will be! Here it is, dears,” and all her kindly face lighted up with satisfaction as they stopped before a small whitewashed cottage with a long garden in front and a bed of lupins at the side. Florence noticed that the garden, stretching far behind, was full of fruit-trees, and that a pear-tree rubbed against the sides of the house.

The old lady got out of the fly slowly, she handed out her niece and nephew; the latter was going to pay the driver, but she pushed away his hand, then stood for a moment feeling absently in her pocket. After a moment she looked up and said in an abstracted voice, “Walter dear, you must settle with the flyman when you go back to Brighton; he is paid by the hour and will wait for you, my darlings;” and she turned towards the gate. “Come,” she said, “I must present you to your uncle.—Robert,” she called, “are you there?” She walked along the pathway with a quick determined step a little in advance of her visitors: when she reached the house she stood still, looking in, but hesitating to enter. Florence and Walter overtaking her saw that the front door opened into a room simply, almost poorly, furnished, with many photographs dotted about the walls, and a curious arrangement of quartz and ferns in one corner. While Mrs. Baines stood irresolute, there came round the house from the right a little shabby-looking maid-servant. Her dress was dirty, and she wore

a large cap on her untidy head.