He _had_ an aunt, and of this lady he was
aware only too vividly. She was long and thin and black, and he would
not have disliked her so cordially, perhaps, had he not from the very
first been aware of the sharpness of her nose when she kissed him. Her
nose hurt him, and so he hated her. But, as he grew, he discovered that
this hatred was well-founded. Miss Wilberforce had not a happy way with
children; she was nervous when she should have been bold, and secret
when she should have been honesty itself. When Ernest Henry was the
merest atom in a cradle, he discovered that she was afraid of him; he
hated the shiny stuff of her dress. She wore a gold chain that--when you
pulled it--snapped and hit your fingers. There were sharp pins at the
back of her dress. He hated her; he was not afraid of her, and yet on
that critical night when his friend told him of his departure, it was
the fear of being left alone with the black cold shiny thing that
troubled him most; she bore of all the daylight things the closest
resemblance to the three beasts.
There was, of course, his nurse, and a great deal of his time was spent
in her company; but she had strangely little connection with his main
problem of the relation of this, his present world, to that, his
preceding one.
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