“Florence,” burst out the old lady, with the injured tone in her voice that Florence knew so well, “I have but ten shillings left in the world. If you wish to take it from me you must do so; but it is not like you, my darling.”
“Oh, Aunt Anne,” Florence began, bewildered, “I am sure you—— I did not mean—I did not know——”
“I’m sure you did not,” Mrs. Baines said, with a sense of injury still in her voice, “but there is nothing so terrible or so galling to a sensitive nature like mine—and your dear Walter’s takes after it, Florence, I am sure—as to be worried about money matters.”
“But, indeed, Aunt Anne, I only thought that—that——” but here she stopped, not knowing how to go on for a moment; “I thought that perhaps the unpaid books represented the household expenses,” she added at last. Really, something must be done to make the old lady careful, she thought.
“My love,” Mrs. Baines said, with an impatient shake of her head, “I cannot go into the details of every little expense. I am not equal to it. Everything you do not find charged in the books has either been paid, or will be charged, by my request, to my private account, and you must leave it so. I really cannot submit to being made to give an explanation of every penny I spend. I am not a child, Florence. I am not an inexperienced girl; I had kept house before, my love—if you will allow me to say so—before you were born.” The treble note had come into Aunt Anne’s voice; it was a sign that tears were not far off.
But Florence could not feel as compassionate as she desired. She smarted under the loss of her money; there was nothing at all to represent it, and Aunt Anne did not seem to have the least idea that it had been of any consequence. Florence got up and put the books away, looking across at Aunt Anne while she did so. The expression on the old lady’s face was set, and almost angry; her lips were firmly closed. She was working at Catty’s little dress. She was a beautiful needle-woman, and embroidered cuffs and collars on the children’s things that were a source of joyful pride to their mother. But even the host of stitches would not pay the week’s bills. If only Aunt Anne could be made to understand the value of money, Florence thought—but it was no use thinking, for her foolish, housekeeping heart was full of domestic woe. She went upstairs to her own room, and, like a real woman who makes no pretence to strong-mindedness, sat down to cry.
“If Walter were only back,” she sobbed, as she rubbed her tearful face against the cushions on the back of the basket-chair by the fireside. “If he were here I should not mind, I might even laugh then. But after I have tried and tried so hard to save and to spend so little, it is hard, and I don’t know what to do.” She pulled out Walter’s letter and read it again by way of getting a little comfort, and as she did so, felt the envelope containing the receipts of the bills Mrs. North had paid. She did not believe that Aunt Anne cared whether they were paid or not paid. She always seemed to think that the classes, who were what she pleased to consider beneath her, were invented simply for her use and convenience, and that protest in any shape on their part was mere impertinence.
The day dragged by. The children prevented the early dinner from being as awkward as it might have been. Mrs. Baines was cold and courteous. Florence had no words to say. She would make it up with the old lady in the evening, when they were alone, she thought. Of course she would have to make it up. Meanwhile, she would go for a long walk, it would do her good. She could think things over quietly, as she tramped along a lonely road between the hedges of faded gorse and heather. But it was late in the afternoon before she had energy enough to start. On her way out, she put her head in at the dining-room door. Mrs. Baines was there with the morning paper, which had just come. She was evidently excited and agitated, and held the paper in one hand while she looked out towards the garden. But she seemed to have forgotten all the unpleasantness of the morning when she spoke.
“My love, are you going out?” she asked.
“I thought you had an engagement, Aunt Anne, and would not want me.”