he next morning Aunt Anne did not appear. She sent word that she would like her breakfast carried up, a fire lighted in her room, and to be left alone for a couple of hours.
Florence was distracted. She had written to Walter, but as the mail did not go out till three days later, nothing was gained by her haste. She had considered things all round, and the more she did so the more amazing did Mr. Wimple’s proposal seem. It was all nonsense to suppose, as Aunt Anne evidently believed, that he was in love with a woman more than twice his age. Florence mentally reviewed Aunt Anne’s charms. She was not even a round, plump old lady with rosy cheeks, and a stray dimple that seemed to have found her company so good it was loath to vanish altogether. She was wrinkled, and thin, and feeble-looking. Her eyes were small and weak, the left one had the nervous affection that so often provided an almost droll accompaniment to her talk. Her skin was withered and sallow. Florence tried to feel like a young man about to marry Aunt Anne, and the idea was not pleasant. She felt that it was almost a duty to prevent the marriage if possible—that Aunt Anne owed it to her past years, to her own dignity, to her relations, to every one and everything not to make a fool of herself.
The children went out at ten o’clock. Florence listened to their shouts of joy as they drove off in the donkey-cart. Then, hurrying through her domestic affairs, she sat down on one of the gaunt easy-chairs by the drawing-room fire to think matters over again. It somehow seemed fitting to sit in the old-world little room while she considered Aunt Anne’s romance. She could hear the old lady moving about overhead, but was afraid to go up, for she had been refused admittance two hours ago. Jane, who was overwhelmed with curiosity, had managed to go in and out once or twice, and reported that Mrs. Baines was dressed and looking through the contents of her trunks “just as if she was packing up.” Florence wondered what it meant, and a dim suspicion of the truth crossed her mind. She felt too as if in the little cottage by the lonely roadside a tragedy was beginning in which Aunt Anne would play the central figure. She shut her eyes for a moment, and, as if in a dream, could see the old lady wringing her thin hands, and stretching them out almost imploringly. “Oh, dear Aunt Anne,” she cried, “something must be done. No good can come of this wild nonsense.”
Suddenly on the gravel footpath outside she heard a footstep, just as she had heard Aunt Anne’s footstep the night before. She got up quickly and looked out. It was Mr. Wimple. He must have come up from the dip at the end of the garden, the short way from Hindhead and the Liphook Road. He was going round the house. Florence darted out and opened the front door before he had time to ring. All in a moment it had struck her that if she could get a talk with him, some explanation, perhaps some good, might come of it. Yet her heart ached, she felt cruel and treacherous, as if she were trying to cheat Aunt Anne of a promise—even though it was a ridiculous promise—of happiness. She thought of the poor old lady’s tears, of her pleading, of her piteous, “as if you grudged me the cup of happiness of which you taste every day.” After all, she had a right to do as she pleased; but that was a foolish argument. She had a right to put herself on the kitchen fire if she pleased, but it would be distinctly the duty of the nearest person to pull her off and prevent her from being burnt.
Mr. Wimple stared at Florence. “How do you do, Mrs. Hibbert?” he said with extreme gravity. He did not hold out his hand or look as if he expected to enter, but stood still on the door-step.
“I saw you coming and wanted to speak to you, Mr. Wimple,” she said almost breathlessly. “Won’t you come in?” Without a word he entered. She led the way to the drawing-room and shut the door. She pointed to one of the chairs beside the screen with a peacock on it, and he sat down, still without a word, and waited for her to speak. She took the other chair and faced him. The light was full upon him, but there was no expression in his eyes, not even one of inquiry.
“Mr. Wimple,” she said, in a low voice, for she was afraid of Aunt Anne above hearing the hum of conversation, “I wanted to speak to you about Aunt Anne—Mrs. Baines.” He looked at her then, but still he said nothing. “I am very fond of her,” she added, as if in excuse for her interference.
“I am sure you are,” he answered, and waited. Florence was forced to go on.
“She came home last night, and she surprised me so—she told me—oh, Mr. Wimple, it can’t be true?”