“His dear mother’s sister Harriet.”
“Quite so,” and Mr. Boughton nodded approvingly. “Well, my dear lady, suppose I take it upon myself, having the management of his affairs for the present, to allow you just a hundred a year, say, till he is able to settle matters himself. Would that enable you to await his recovery, or——”
A little lump came into Aunt Anne’s throat, a slow movement of satisfaction to her left eye; her voice was unsteady when she spoke.
“Mr. Boughton,” she said, “I know Sir William will be most grateful to you. My circumstances must have been the cause of much anxiety to him.”
“Then we will consider the matter arranged until he is in a condition to attend to it himself or—by the way, would you like to have a cheque at once?”
“Perhaps it would be advisable,” Aunt Anne said, but she seemed unable to go on. Try to conceal it as she would, the sudden turn in her fortune was too much for her.
“You must forgive me,” she said gently, sitting down, “I have had a journey from the country, and I am not so young as I was years ago;” she looked up with a little smile, as if to belie her words.
“Of course,” answered Mr. Boughton, feelingly. “Age is a malady we all inherit if we live long enough. Let me get you a glass of wine; there is some excellent port in the sideboard;” and in a moment he found a decanter and, having filled a glass, handed it to her. But she shook her head while she looked up at him gratefully.
“You must forgive me,” she said, “port wine is always pernicious to me.” But he persuaded her to take a little sip, and then the glass was set down beside her while he wrote the cheque.
“You will tell dear William,” she said, “when he is well enough, with what solicitude I think of him. And, Mr. Boughton, you must permit me to say how much indebted I feel to your courtesy, and to the consideration with which you have treated me.”