“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.