And now a happier and more useful course of life began. Henrietta had just enough rheumatism to take a course of waters sometimes. She found a doctor who had a great flair for elderly ladies; he knew when to bully them, when to flatter them, and when to neglect them. He and the waters made a centre round which the rest of her interests might group themselves. Church. She found a vicar with nothing of Mr. Wharton’s enthusiasm and loftiness of aim, but with a greater realization of people’s capacities. He too had made a study of elderly ladies, who are always such an important branch of congregations. He could see that what Miss Symons was in his drawing-room, touchy, incompetent, and snappish she would be in any work she did in the parish. But he was also made to see her extreme generosity, of which she herself was entirely unconscious. He liked and was touched by her humility. “Oh no, don’t trouble about asking me, Mr. Vaughan, nobody will want to talk to a dull person like me. Get some nice young men for the girls, if you can.” “No, I can’t have that pretty Miss Allan helping at my stall, I can get along very well by myself. I shall bring Annie; we can manage together.”

The poor people, of course, did not like her, for as she grew older she was more convinced than ever that the lower orders must be constantly reproved. But poor people are very magnanimous, and they were sure of a good many presents. She was also for ever bickering with her servants, but “poor old lady” as they said, “she’s getting on now, it makes her worry,” and she found in Annie one who knew how to give at least as good as she got. Horror of being defrauded by servants and tradespeople was a great resource, and though she continually deplored the pleasure of life abroad, these years of muddling in and out of her house, her garden, and her shops, were probably the happiest in her life.

A certain conversation contributed not a little to this new happiness. She was at a tea-party, for once she had been admitted into the circle of tea-parties, she became much absorbed in them, and she and a neighbour were tracing an attack of influenza from its source to its decline, when Henrietta’s hostess came up to her.

“I want to introduce you to Mrs. Manson,” said she. “Mrs. Manson is a cousin of that Mr. Dockerell you told me you knew, Miss Symons.”

There had been no sentiment in Henrietta’s telling, she had quoted Mr. Dockerell as an authority on Portugal laurels.

“Ah, my cousin, Mr. Dockerell,” said Mrs. Manson, “you knew him, did you? He’s dead, poor man, had you heard? He died last year.”

And once started upon Mr. Dockerell, she rambled away with his life’s history, being one without much feeling, who could say everything to anybody.

“Poor Fred, his marriage was such a mistake. She was older than him, and a mass of nerves. She caught him. I always said it was that; anybody on earth could have caught him. It was at Worthing; those seaside places in the summer are very dangerous. My mother used to say: ’We must be thankful it isn’t worse.’ No, he wasn’t happy. There was a story that he really liked somebody else: a Miss Simon her name was Simon, or something like that. Where did she come from? Oh yes, Willstead; he had some work there at one time. ‘The beautiful dark Miss Simon.’ At least, she wasn’t beautiful, that was our joke; there was a pretty sister, but she was fair. My sister always insisted he was pining after her, but that wasn’t like Fred. We used to be hard-hearted, and declare it was indigestion.”

Mr. Dockerell’s death was not very much to Henrietta, he had passed so entirely out of her life. But “a dark Miss Simon living at Willstead, not beautiful”; she thought much of that. She could not but believe it must be herself. “So perhaps after all he did care,” she said to herself, as she sat over the fire that evening, she had reached the age when she liked a good deal of twilight thinking undisturbed by the gas. But the news had come so late; if only she had known before. Those months and years of unhappiness rose before her. Granted that Providence had decreed they were not to marry, and looking back she did not feel as if she wished they had married, it was all so far behind her, she thought that she might have been given the happiness of a farewell letter from him, telling her that she really was first in his heart. “I should never have seen him or heard from him again; of course I should not have wanted it, but it would have been so comfortable to have known.” She fell into her childhood’s habit of daydreams, if one can have daydreams of the past, and sat such a long time absorbed that Annie came in at last with her matchbox. “Don’t you want the gas lit, ’m? You never rang, I was gettin’ quite fidgettin’ about you, your heart’s not very strong.”

Henrietta was composing his last letter, each moment making it more and more tender. She came back with a start to ordinary life, and the magazine article on “Beauties of George II.’s Court,” which lay open before her. She dismissed her picture of what might have been with “Of course it was impossible, it’s ridiculous wondering about it. How can one be so foolish at nearly sixty?” But she did wonder, and there is no doubt she was very much pleased. And after all the good news was false, he had never thought of her again.

She confided the little incident to Evelyn. Evelyn, adoring her husband and adored by him, had been so much accustomed to men’s admiration that she did not attach great value to it. She had seen long ago her old lovers pairing happily with somebody else: that side of life had been over for herself many years since. Her interest now was in her sons’ possible marriages, and it was a little painful to her that Henrietta should be so much excited about what had never after all been more than a potential love affair. To tell the truth, she thought it a trifle petty and not worthy the dignity of one on the verge of old age. She wanted to be sympathetic, and she was too kind to say anything that would wound, but Henrietta could see that Evelyn did not enter into her feelings.

Louie’s children were now started in life, and the sons were getting on so well that even Henrietta owned they might be expected to take the burden of their parents upon themselves. She had her nieces and nephews to stay; Minna and Louie also came to take the waters. One or two of the nieces were of course collecting second-hand furniture, and used Bath as a centre for expeditions to the little country towns. The visits were very pleasant, if they did not last more than two nights; after two nights there would be a danger of friction, and sometimes friction itself. Her nieces and nephews were all what she called “modern,” the harshest word but one she knew. A certain nephew and niece, alas, were more than modern they were the harshest word of all, “Radical.” The nephew had too profound a contempt for old ladies to talk about anything more controversial than the local train service, but even that he discovered was a topic beyond Henrietta’s capacity. For it turned out, after she had appeared to be talking very sensibly about the afternoon trains, that she was referring to one marked with an “N.,” a Thursday excursion, which destroyed all the point of her remarks. Her nephew explained this to her, but she would stick to her train, and declare that the “N.” was a misprint. A misprint in Bradshaw. What a mind! He had not realized that even an aunt could be so childish. Of course she knew she was wrong, but she tried to persuade herself that she was right, because she was so much disappointed. She had wanted to make a good impression on her nephew, even if he were a Radical. She thought men superior to women, though throughout her life her affection and veneration had been given to women Miranda, Miss Arundel, Evelyn. She had an innocent conviction that men knew more about everything, except perhaps the youngest babies, and she was anxious for masculine good opinion. Alas, to contradict her nephew several times running was not the way to win him over.

He felt that contradiction amply justified him in wrapping himself up in his paper for the rest of the evening, vouchsafing “um” and “ah” occasionally after imploring pressure from his aunt. He left first thing next morning.

Then his Radical sister came. She inspected something under Government, and with a burning faith in womanhood hoped against hope that with time her aunt must be converted “to think the right things.” With a mere niece Henrietta felt at liberty, and very competent, to correct. But she little knew with whom she was reckoning.

“Servants belong to a Trade Union, Annie and Emma” (the cook) “join a Union. How perfectly ridiculous!”

“But why ridiculous, Aunt Etta?”

“Because it is.”

“No, but do tell me, Aunt Etta. I know there must be some solid reason, and I should be so much interested to hear it.”

“You should have seen Annie’s hat last Sunday: enormous pink roses in it.”

“Yes,” answered her niece, catching her aunt out very easily, “but as far as that goes some ladies have enormous pink roses.”

Yes, indeed. Why, when I was young we should never

“And you don’t object to their joining Trade Unions?”

“Yes, I do.”

“But, after all, what is that Teachers’ Society that Hilda belongs to” (Hilda was another niece) “but a Trade Union? And you went on their excursion, Hilda told me.”

That has nothing to do with it (a favourite refuge with old ladies when they are getting the worst of a discussion). Of course, if Hilda

“So I mean Annie’s wearing garish hats is not really a reason against her joining a Trade Union. You see my point, don’t you?”

“I particularly dislike being interrupted. I hadn’t finished what I was going to say.”

“I beg your pardon, Aunt Etta, I am so sorry. What was it you were going to say?”

Henrietta could not remember, and branched off to something else. “Wearing all this jewellery in the day is so common. That girl at the post office had two brooches and a locket, and she kept me waiting so long; she always does.”

“Yes, but I think we must leave them to judge what they like to wear; it is not our business really, is it? But I did just want to speak to you about this Servants’ Union, Aunt Etta. I wonder if I might give Annie a little pamphlet I have written about it. Of course, we don’t want them to be always striking or anything of that sort. The aim of my Society is simply to try and rouse servants to a sense of what it is they’re missing this great power of organization and solidarity which they ought to have. I think Annie looks such a nice intelligent girl, who would be sure to have an influence with her friends.”

“No, she’s most tiresome and inconsiderate. She would go out this evening just when you were coming, because she wanted to take her mother to the hospital, so that I had to have Mrs. Spring, and it is all very well for Annie to say

“I wonder if I might read you a little piece out of my pamphlet, Aunt Etta, just to make a few points clear. You see, I want to get you in favour of our Union so much, because we feel that mistresses ought to be co-operating with the servants, helping them to help themselves, and then we shall get a really influential body of public opinion, which will do valuable work in improving servants’ conditions.”

Henrietta writhed and struggled, and went off on frivolous pretexts, but she could not escape the pamphlet, which was extremely able; so was the author extremely able, but for a complete ignorance of human nature. Henrietta heard all about Socialism, Land Taxes, and Adult Suffrage too, and the more cross she became the more kindly and patiently Agatha shouted, greeting any specially absurd ebullition with imperturbable pleasantness, and “how interesting, I am so anxious to get exactly at your point of view.” That niece was not invited again.

Henrietta often thought with affection and gratitude of the little old aunt, who had died many years back; but, as she would have been the first to own, her old age was not nearly so successful. Her house was not a centre for everybody. She had some elderly ladies with whom she exchanged visits, but young people disliked her, and children were afraid of her.

Ever since she settled in England, she had made earnest attempts to curb her temper. But the companion of a lifetime is not easily shaken off at fifty-five, and more often than not she was quite unaware of crossness, from which all around were suffering severely. On the very rare occasions that she did realize it, she went back to the self she had been as a child, descended from the pedestal of her age and generation, and said she was sorry.

One day she and Annie had a long serious battle. The question in the first instance was whether Annie had chipped off the nose of the china pug-dog on the mantelpiece, a relic of the old house at Willstead; Henrietta always had a tender feeling for relics. The arguments marshalled by Annie were against Henrietta, but arguments never had much weight with her. Besides, the battle passed on from the definite point of the nose to vague but bitter attacks on character. Henrietta always had in her mind an ideal servant, who accepted scolding not merely with meekness but with gratitude, and was fond of quoting her, to the exasperation of the real servants. After half an hour Annie began to cry noisily, so that Henrietta’s words were drowned. The interview came to an end. Annie went downstairs and told Cook, but she wasted few tears or thoughts on the matter, and almost at once they were laughing cheerfully over their young men, as they sat at needlework.

Henrietta did think, fidgeting about the room while she thought, taking things out of their places and putting them where they ought not to be, in a fuss of discomfort. At last she rang the bell.

“The lamp, please, Annie.”

“The lamp ’m,” said Annie; “but you don’t want it for half an hour yet, do you, ’m, it’s such a beautiful evening?”

It was impossible ever to quell Annie.

“The lamp, please,” repeated Henrietta, “and I should like to I think you ought to I feel that in a what I want you to realize is that you should keep a great watch over your temper. When one comes to my age one sees that there is and you should not put it off till too late as people sometimes as I have done.”

Annie’s sharp ears heard the last little murmur. Henrietta rather hoped they would not, though it was for the sake of the murmur that she had rung the bell.

Annie said “Yes ’m,” very pleasantly, and yielded about the lamp. She told cook afterwards, with some amusement, “She’s funny, I’ve always said that, but,” she added, “I’ve known some I should say was funnier.”

This opinion may be worth recording, as it was one of the highest tributes to her character Henrietta ever received.

On the whole during those latter years she improved, and in the general reformation of her character she raised the standard of her reading. She confined herself in the mornings and afternoon to mildly scandalous memoirs of Frenchwomen and biographies of Church dignitaries, keeping her costume novels for the evening.

She often saw Evelyn, and they talked of the past, but they never regained the almost heavenly intimacy of that night. They seldom met without some disagreeableness from Henrietta, and she did not like the boys, there was nothing of Evelyn in them, while they for their part could not imagine why their mother cared for their aunt Henrietta. It was a continual struggle for Evelyn not to be impatient with her; much as she longed to, she could not keep on the high plane of devotion, which had brought such happiness to both.