“Aunt Anne!” she exclaimed, “what has happened?”
The old lady had been standing by the fireplace. Her thin white hands were bare, but she still wore her cloak and black close-fitting bonnet, though she had thrown aside the crape veil. Her face looked worn and anxious, but a look of indignation came to her eyes when she saw Florence, a last little flash of remembered insult: then she advanced with outstretched hands.
“Florence,” she said, “I have come to you for advice and shelter, I have been insulted—and humiliated”—a quaver came into her voice, she could not go on till indignation returned to give her strength. “Florence,” she begun again, “I have come to you. I—I——”
“Aunt Anne, dear Aunt Anne!” Florence said, aching with fatigue, and feeling ruefully that her longing for rest and quiet was not likely to be satisfied, yet thinking, oddly enough too, even while she spoke, of Walter going on, farther and farther away across the darkening sea, “what is the matter? tell me, dear.” There was a throbbing pain in her head. It was like the thud-thud of the screw on board his ship.
Aunt Anne raised her head and spoke firmly—
“My love, I have been insulted.”
“Insulted, Aunt Anne, but how?”
“Yes, my love, insulted. I frequently had occasion to reprove the servants for their conduct, for the want of respect they showed me. The cook was abominable, and a reprimand had no effect upon her. To-day her impertinence was past endurance, I told Mrs. North so, and that she must be dismissed. Mrs. North refused—refused, though her servant had forgotten what was due to me, and this morning—— I can’t repeat her words.”
“Well,” said Florence, “but surely you did not let a servant drive——”
“No, dear Florence, it was not the cook who drove me away, I should not allow a subordinate to interfere with my life; it was Mrs. North. She has behaved cruelly to me. She listened to her servants in preference to me. I told her that they showed me no respect, that they entirely forgot what was due to me, and unless she made an example, and dismissed one of them, it would be impossible for me to stay in her house, and then, my love, I was told that—that,” she stopped for a moment, “I can’t tell you,” she went on suddenly; “I can’t repeat it all, Florence; but, my love, there were other reasons—that are impossible to repeat; and I am here—I am here, homeless and miserable, and insulted. I flew to you, I knew you would be indignant, that your dear heart would feel for me.”