Her manner had changed in a moment; she said the last words with soft triumph, and looked at Florence. The sight of the young wife seemed to be too much for her; there was something like a tear in the left eye, the one that winked, when she spoke again.
“I must give her a kiss,” she said tenderly, and putting out her arms she gathered the girl to her heart. “But we must make haste,” she went on quickly, hurrying over the fag end of her embrace, as if she had not time to indulge in her feelings much as she desired to do so. “Mr. Baines will wonder what has happened to us. He is longing to see you;” and without their knowing it, she almost chased them along the pier.
Then Walter, thinking of the prawns and the chicken and the large dish of ripe green figs, made a wild struggle to get free.
“But really, Aunt Anne,” he said firmly, “we must go back to the lodgings. Come and lunch with us now, and let us go and see Mr. Baines another time; I dare say we shall be at Brighton again soon. We will make a point of coming now that we know you are here, won’t we, Floggie?” and he appealed feebly to his wife.
“Yes, indeed we will,” Florence assured her.
“Dear children,” Aunt Anne laughed, “I shall not take any excuse, or think of letting you escape now that I have found you.” There was an unexpected brightness in her manner, but there was no intention of letting them go.
“Besides, there may be important letters at the lodgings, and I ought to do a bit of work;” but there was evident invention in Walter’s voice, and she did not slacken her pace. Still, as if she wanted him to know that she saw through his excuses, she looked at him reproachfully, and with a determination that did not falter.
“It would be impossible for me to return without you,” she said, with extreme gravity; “he would never forgive me. Besides, dear children, you don’t know what a pleasure it is to see you. I could not let you go just yet. My heart gave a bound as I recognized Walter’s voice,” she went on, turning to Florence; “he is so like what his dear father used to be. I knew him directly.”
They were already by the turnstile. They felt helpless. The old lady with the thin shoulders and the black shawl loosely floating behind seemed to be their master: they were like children doing as they were told.
“Here is the fly. Get in, my darlings,” she said triumphantly, and Florence meekly took her place. “Get in, dear Walter,” she repeated with decision, “I will follow; get in,” and he too obeyed. Another moment and they were going towards Rottingdean.