“It is too complicated to understand,” Florence answered in despair. “And is there no one else, Aunt Anne?”
“There are many others, but they are indifferent as he is, they are cold and hard, Florence; that is a lesson one has to learn when fortune deserts one,” and the old lady shook her head mournfully.
“But, dear Aunt Anne,” Florence said, aghast at this sudden vista of the world, “tell me who they are besides Sir William Rammage; let Walter try what can be done. Surely they cannot all be as cold and hard as you think.”
“It is of no use, my love,” Mrs. Baines said sadly.
“But perhaps you are mistaken, and they will after all do something for you. Do tell me who they are.”
Mrs. Baines drew herself up proudly; the tears that had seemed to be on their way a minute ago must have retreated suddenly, for her eyes looked bright, and she spoke in a quick, determined voice.
“My love,” she said, “you must not expect me to give you an account of all my friends and relations and of what they will or will not do for me. Don’t question me, my love, for I cannot allow it—I cannot indeed. I have told you that I am destitute, that I am a widow, that I am working for my living; and that must suffice. I am deeply attached to you and Walter; there is in my heart a picture that will never be effaced of you and him standing in our garden at Rottingdean, of your going away in the sunshine with flowers and preserve in your hands—the preserve that I myself had made. It is because I love you that I have come to you to-day, and because I feel assured that you love me; but you must remember, Florence, that I am your aunt and you must treat me with proper respect and consideration.”
“But, Aunt Anne——” Florence began astonished.
Mrs. Baines put her hand on Mrs. Hibbert’s shoulder.
“There there,” she said forgivingly, “I know you did not mean to hurt me, but”—and here her voice grew tender and tremulous again—“no one, not even you or Walter, must presume, for I cannot allow it. There—kiss me,” and she pulled Florence’s head down on to her breast, while suddenly—for there were wonderfully quick transitions of feeling expressed on the old wan face all through the interview—a smile that was almost joyous came to her lips. “I am so glad to see you again, my dear,” she said; “I have looked forward to this day for years. I loved you from the very first moment I saw you at Brighton, and I have always loved your Walter. I wish,” she went on, as Florence gently disengaged herself from the black cashmere embrace, “I wish you could remember him a little boy as I do. He had the darkest eyes and the lightest hair in the world.”