“You should have come to us before, poor dear.”
“I should have done so, my love, but—my lodging was too simple, and I was not in a position to receive you as I could have wished. I waited, hoping that Sir William would see that it was incumbent on him to make me an adequate allowance; but he has not done so.”
“And won’t he do anything for you? If he is rich he might do something temporarily, even if he won’t make you a permanent allowance. Has he done nothing?”
Mrs. Baines shook her head sadly.
“He sent me some port wine, my love, but port wine is always pernicious to me; I wrote and told him so, but he did not even reply. It is not four years ago since he was Lord Mayor of London, and yet he will do nothing for me.”
She had lost her air of distress, there was a dogged dignity in her manner; she stood up and looked at her niece; it seemed as if, in speaking of Sir William Rammage, she remembered that the world had used her shamefully, and she had determined to give it back bitter scorn for its indifference to her griefs.
“Lord Mayor of London,” Mrs. Hibbert repeated, and rubbed her eyes a little; it seemed like part of a play and not a very sane one—the old lady, her deep mourning, her winking left eye, and the sudden introduction of a Lord Mayor.
“Yes, Lord Mayor of London,” repeated Mrs. Baines, “and he lets me work for my daily bread.”
“Is Walter also related to the Lord Mayor?”
“No, my love. Your Walter’s grandfather married twice; I was the daughter of the first marriage—my mother was the daughter of a London merchant—your Walter’s father was the son of the second marriage.”