"My Dear Bertha—
"My Dear Bertha—
"The letter I received from you last night requires no comment. You may perhaps be glad to hear that I have just engaged myself to Mr. Franks, the sub-editor of theArgonaut, and a very distinguished man. We are to be married before Christmas. It is his particular wish thatI should go on writing, and it is one of the conditions that we shall both pursue our own careers independently of the other, and yet each helped by the other. You will, I am sure, fulfil your part of the bargain. I shall want another story of about five thousand words next week, as terse, and brilliant, and clever as you can make it. I shall also want an article for theGeneral Review. Make it smart, but avoid the woman question. I have been bullied on the subject, and did not know how to answer."Yours truly,"Florence Aylmer."
"The letter I received from you last night requires no comment. You may perhaps be glad to hear that I have just engaged myself to Mr. Franks, the sub-editor of theArgonaut, and a very distinguished man. We are to be married before Christmas. It is his particular wish thatI should go on writing, and it is one of the conditions that we shall both pursue our own careers independently of the other, and yet each helped by the other. You will, I am sure, fulfil your part of the bargain. I shall want another story of about five thousand words next week, as terse, and brilliant, and clever as you can make it. I shall also want an article for theGeneral Review. Make it smart, but avoid the woman question. I have been bullied on the subject, and did not know how to answer.
"Yours truly,
"Florence Aylmer."
This letter written, Florence did not even wait to read it. She put it into an envelope, directed it, and ran out with it to the nearest pillar-box. She dropped it in and returned to the house. It was not yet eleven o'clock. How tired she was! It was nearly two hours since Franks and she had ratified their contract. She was engaged now—engaged to a man who did not profess to love her, for whom she did not feel the faintest glimmering of affection. She was engaged and safe; yes, of course she was safe. No fear now of her ghastly secret being discovered! As long as Bertha lived the stories could be conveyed to her, and the stories would mean fame, and she would go on adding fame to fame and greatness to greatness until she was known, not only in England, but in America, and in the Colonies, as a new writer of great promise, and Franks would be rich. Oh, yes, he would manage her financial affairs in the future. He would not allow her to sell her talent for less than it was worth. He would instruct her how to dress, and how to speak when she was in public;he would take care that she did not give herself away as she had all but done last night. He would be her master, and doubtless she would find herself ruled by an iron rod. But no matter: she was safe. She would not think even for a moment of what she was throwing away. Such was her feeling; but never mind: she had chosen the wrong and refused the right. Great temptation had come, and she had not been able to resist it, and now the only way was to go straight on; and Franks had made that way plain. It was the broad road which led to destruction. She was pricked by many thorns, and the broad road was the reverse of pleasant, and she saw dizzily how steep the hill would grow by-and-by, and how fast the descent would be; but never mind: she at least was safe for the present.
She panted and felt herself turning slightly cold as this last thought came to her, for there was a tap at the door, and Trevor, his face white, his grey eyes anxious, an expression of earnestness and love beaming all over his features, came in.
He was in every way the opposite of Tom Franks.
Florence looked wildly at him. She must go through the dreadful half-hour which was before her. She hoped he would not stay long: that he would take his dismissal quietly. She dared not think too hard; she did her utmost to drive thought out.
"Well," said Trevor, "have I come too early?"
"Oh, no," said Florence, "it is past eleven," and she looked listlessly at the clock.
He tried to take her hand. She put it immediately behind her.
"You have come to ask me a question, have you not?" she said.
"I have. You promised me your confidence last night."
"I did not promise: I said I might give it."
"Am I to expect it?"
"What do you want to know?"
"I want to know this," said Trevor. He took out of his pocket a copy of theGeneral Review. He opened it at the page where Florence's article appeared. He then also produced from his pocket-book a tiny slip of paper, a torn slip, on which, in Bertha Keys's handwriting, was the identical sentence which had attracted so much attention in theReview.
"Look," he said.
Florence did look. Her frightened eyes were fixed upon the scrap of paper.
"Where—where did you get that?" she said.
"It is remarkable," he said; "I thought perhapsyouwould explain. I have read your paper—I am not going to say whether I like it or not. Do you remember that day when I saw you and gave you a packet at Hamslade Station?"
"Quite well."
"I think you would not be likely to forget. I was naturally puzzled to find you so near Mrs. Aylmer's house and yet not there. The packet I gave you was from Miss Keys, was it not?"
"There can be no harm in admitting that fact," replied Florence, in a guarded voice.
He looked at her and shook himself impatiently.
"I was perplexed and amazed at seeing you at the station."
"You ought to try and curb your curiosity, Mr. Trevor," said Florence. She tried to speak lightly and in a bantering tone. He was too much in earnest to take any notice of her tone.
"I was curious; I had reason to be," he replied. "I went home. Miss Keys, Miss Sharston and others were in the hall. They were talking about you, and Miss Sharston showed me one of your stories. I read it; we both read it, and with keen curiosity."
"Was it the first or the second?" said Florence.
"The first story. It was clever; it was not a bit the sort of story I thought you would have written."
Florence lowered her eyes.
"The style was remarkable and distinctive," he continued; "it was not the style of a girl so young as you are; but of course that goes for nothing. I went upstairs to Mrs. Aylmer's boudoir: I wanted to fetch a book. I don't think I was anxious to read, but I was restless. The book lay on Miss Keys's desk. On the desk also were some torn sheets of paper. I picked up one mechanically."
"You read what was not meant for you to read!" said Florence, her eyes flashing.
Trevor gave her a steady glance.
"I admit that I read a sentence—the sentence I have just shown you. I will frankly tell you that I was surprised at it; I was puzzled by the resemblance between the style of the story and the style of the sentence. I put the torn sheet of paper into my pocket-book. I don't exactly know why I did it at the time, but I felt desperate. I wastaking a great interest in you. It seemed to me that if you did wrong I was doing wrong myself. It seemed to me that if by any chance your soul was smirched, or made unhappy, or blackened, or any of its loftiness and its god-like quality removed, my own soul was smirched too, my own nature lowered. But I thought no special harm of you, although I was troubled; and that night I learned for the first time that I was interested in you because I loved you, because you were the first of all women to me, and I——"
"Oh, don't," said Florence, "don't say any more." She turned away from him, flung herself on the sofa, and sobbed as if her heart would break.
Trevor stood near for a little in much bewilderment. Presently she raised her eyes. He sat down on the sofa by her.
"Why don't you tell me everything, Florence?" he said, with great tenderness in his tone.
"I cannot: it is too late. Think what you like of me! Suspect me as you will! I do not think you would voluntarily injure me. I cannot give you my confidence, for I——"
"Yes, dear, yes; don't tremble so. Poor little girl, you will be better afterwards. I won't ask you too much; only tell me, sweetest, with your own lips that you love me."
"I am not sweet, I am not dear, I am not darling. I am a bad girl, bad in every way," said Florence. "Think of me as you like. I dare not be near you: I dare not speak to you. Oh, yes, perhaps Icouldhave loved you:I won't think of that now. I am engaged to another man."
"You engaged!" said Trevor. He sprang to his feet as if someone had shot him. He trembled a little; then he pulled himself together. "Say it again."
"I am engaged to Mr. Franks."
"But you were not engaged last night?"
"No."
"When did this take place?"
"Two hours ago; he came at nine—a minute past, I think. We became engaged; it is all settled. Good-bye; forget me."
Florence still kept her hands behind her. She rose: her miserable tear-stained face and her eyes full of agony were raised for a moment to Trevor's.
"Do go," she said; "it is all over. I have accepted the part that is not good, and you must forget me."
Two days later a little woman might have been seen paying a cabman at the door of No. 12, Prince's Mansions. She argued with him over the fare, but finally yielded to his terms, and then she tripped upstairs, throwing back her long widow's veil, which she always insisted on wearing. She reached the door which had been indicated to her as the one leading to Florence's room. She tapped, but there was no answer. She tried to turn the handle: the door was locked. Just as she was so engaged, a girl with a bright, keen face and resolute manner opened the next door and popped out her head.
"Pardon me," said Mrs. Aylmer the less, for of course it was she, "but can you tell me if my daughter Florence is likely to be in soon?"
"Your daughter Florence?" repeated the girl. "Are you Mrs. Aylmer—Florence's mother?"
"That is my proud position, my dear. I am the mother of that extremely gifted girl."
"She is out, but I daresay she will be in soon," said Edith Franks. "Will you come into my room and wait for her?"
"With pleasure. How very kind of you!" said Mrs. Aylmer. She tripped into the room, accepted the seatwhich Edith pointed out to her near the fire, and untied her bonnet strings.
"Dear, dear!" she said, as she looked around her. "Very comfortable indeed. And isthiswhat indicates the extreme poverty of those lady girls who toil?"
"That is a remarkable sentence," said Edith. "Do you mind saying it again?"
Mrs. Aylmer looked at her and smiled.
"I won't say it again," she said, "for it does not fit the circumstance. You do not toil."
"But indeed I do; I work extremely hard—often eight or nine hours a day."
"Good gracious! How crushing! But you don't look bad."
"I have no intention of being bad, for I enjoy my work. I am studying to be a lady doctor."
"Oh, don't," said Mrs. Aylmer. She immediately drew down her veil and seated herself in such a position that the light should not fall on her face.
"I have heard of those awful medical women," she said, after a pause, "and I assure you the mere idea of them makes me ill. I hope they will never become the fashion. You expect medical knowledge in a man, but not in a woman. My dear, pray don't stare at me; you may discover that I have some secret disease which I do not know of myself. I do not wish it found out even if it exists. Please keep your eyes off me."
"I am not going to diagnose your case, if that is what you mean," replied Edith, with a smile. "I am by no means qualified: I have to pass my exams in America."
"Thank you." Mrs. Aylmer sighed again. "It is arelief to know that at present you understand but little of the subject. I hope some good man may marry you and prevent your becoming that monster—a woman doctor. But now to change the subject. I am extremely anxious for my daughter to return. I have bad news for her. Can you tell me how she is?"
"Well, I think," replied Edith.
"You know her."
"Oh, yes, rather intimately. Have you not heard our news?"
"What news?"
"She is engaged to my brother."
"What?" cried Mrs. Aylmer. She sprang to her feet; she forgot in her excitement all fear of the embryo medical woman. She dropped her cloak and rushed forward to where Edith was standing and seized both her hands.
"My girl engaged to your brother! And pray who is your brother?"
"A very rising journalist, a remarkably clever man. It is, let me tell you, Mrs. Aylmer, an excellent match for your daughter."
"Oh, that remains to be seen. I don't at all know that I countenance the engagement."
"I am afraid you cannot help it now. Florence is of age. I wonder she did not write to you."
"I may not have received her letter. The fact is I have been away from home for the last day or two. But I wish she would return, as I have come on most urgent business. Pray, miss—I do not even know your name."
"Franks," replied Edith: "Edith Franks."
"Pray, Miss Franks, do not spread the story of mydaughter's engagement to your brother just for a day or two. Circumstances may alter matters, and until a girl has been reallyledto the altar I never consider this sort of thing final. Ah! whose step is that on the stairs? I believe it is my Flo's."
Mrs. Aylmer tripped to the door, flung it open, and stood in an expectant attitude.
The next moment Florence, accompanied by Tom Franks, appeared. Mrs. Aylmer looked at him, and in a flash said, under her breath: "The future son-in-law." Then she went up to Florence and kissed her.
"Oh, mother," said Florence, looking by no means elated at this unexpected appearance of the little Mummy on the scene, "what has brought you to town?"
"Most important business, dear. I must see you immediately in your room. I assure you nothing would induce me to spend the money I did were it not absolutely necessary that I should see you at once. This gentleman, you must tell him to go, Florence; I have not a single moment to waste over him now."
"Let me introduce Mr. Franks to you, mother. Tom, this is my mother. You know, mother, that I am engaged to Mr. Franks."
"I know nothing of the kind," replied Mrs. Aylmer angrily.
Florence smiled.
"But I wrote to you, mother; I told you everything."
"Perhaps so, dear, but I didn't receive the letter. I cannot acknowledge the engagement just now. I am very much agitated. Mr. Franks, you will, I hope, excuse me. Of course I know the feelings of all young men undersuch circumstances, and I wish to do nothing rude or in any way impolite, but just now Imustsee my daughter alone."
"You had better go, Tom," said Florence. She took the key of her room out of her pocket, opened the door, and ushered her mother in.
"Now, mother," she said. "Oh, dear, the fire is out." She walked to the hearth, stooped down, and began to light the fire afresh. Mrs. Aylmer sat near the window.
"Now, mother," said Florence, just looking round her, "what have you come about?"
"I thought you would give me a welcome," said Mrs. Aylmer the less; "you used to be an affectionate girl."
"Oh, used!" said Florence. "But people change as they grow older. Sometimes I think I have not any heart."
"But you have engaged yourself to that man. I presume you love him."
"No, I don't love him at all."
"Flo, it is impious to hear your talk; it is just on a par with those awfully clever papers of yours—those stories and those articles. You have made a terrible sensation at Dawlish. You are becoming notorious, my dear. It is awful for a little widow like me to have a notorious daughter. You must stop it, Flo; you really must!"
"Come, mother, I will get you a cup of tea. What does it matter what the Dawlish people say? You will spend the night, of course?"
"You and I, my dear, will spend some of the night in the train."
"Now, mother, what does this mean?"
"Listen, Flo. Yes, you may get me a cup of tea and a new-laid egg, if you have such a thing."
"But I have not."
"Then a rasher of bacon done to a turn and a little bit of toast. I can toast the bread myself. You are not at all badly off in this nice room, but——"
"Go on, mother, go on; do explain why you have come."
"It is your aunt, dear; she is very ill indeed. She is not expected to recover."
"What, Aunt Susan?"
"Yes, she has had a serious illness and has taken a turn for the worse. It is double pneumonia, whatever that means. Anyhow, it is frightfully fatal, and the doctors have no hope. I went to see her."
"When you heard she was ill, mother?"
"No, I didn't hear she was ill. I felt so desperate about you and the extraordinary sentiments you were casting wholesale upon the world that I could stand it no longer, and when you sent me that last cheque I thought I would make a final appeal to Susan. So I put on my very best black silk——"
Florence now with a quick sigh resumed her duties as tea-maker. Mrs. Aylmer was fairly launched on her narrative.
"I put on my very best black silk—the one that nice, charming,cleverMiss Keys sent to me—and I told Sukey that I should be away for a couple of days and that she was to expect me when she heard from me, and she wasnotto forward letters. I didn't expect any from you, and your letters lately have been the reverse of comforting, and I started off and got to Aylmer's Court yesterdayevening. I took a cab and drove straight there, and when the man opened the door I said: 'I am Mrs. Aylmer; I have come to see my sister-in-law,' and of course there was nothing for it but to let me in, although the flunkey said: 'I don't think she is quite as bad as that, ma'am,' and I looked at him and said: 'What do you mean?' and I had scarcely uttered the words before Miss Keys, so elegantly dressed and looking such a perfect lady, tripped downstairs and said, in a kind tone: 'So you have come! I am glad you have come.' She did, Florence; those were her very words. She said: 'I am glad you have come.' It was so refreshing to hear her, and she took me into one of the spacious reception-rooms—oh! my dear child, a room which ought to be yours by-and-by—and she made me sit down, and then she told me. There have been dreadful things happening, my dear Florence, and that wicked young man whom I took such a fancy to has turned out to be a wolf in sheep's clothing. He broke my poor, dear,warm-heartedsister-in-law's heart."
"Now, mother, why do you talk rubbish?" said Florence. "You know Aunt Susan is not warm-hearted."
"She has not been understood," said Mrs. Aylmer, beginning to sob. She took a handkerchief from her pocket and wiped away her tears. "The circumstances of her life have proved how warm her heart is," she continued. "She adopted that young man and he played her false."
"He did not," said Florence.
"He did, Flo; he did. She wanted him to marry—to make a most suitable match—and he refused her. Bertha told me all about it. He was in love with some stupid, poor, plain girl, goodness knows where. Bertha said there wasno doubt of it, and he went away and broke with my poor sister, although she loved him so much and was better than twenty mothers to him. She had just offered him a thousand a year as pocket-money. You will scarcely believe it, Flo, but the ungrateful wretch gave it all up for the sake of that girl. I never heard of such a man, and to think that I should have angled—yes, I did, dear—that you should know him!"
"Here is your tea, mother. Can you not stop talking for a little? You will wear yourself out."
"What a queer, stern, cold voice you have, Florence! You are not half as interested as you used to be."
"Do drink your tea, mother."
Mrs. Aylmer was not proof against the fragrant cup. She broke a piece of toast and put it into her mouth, she sipped her tea, but nothing could stop her narrative.
"Soon after he left, that wicked young man," she resumed, "poor Susan fell ill. She got worse and worse, and what apparently was only a slight attack soon assumed serious dimensions, and there is little hope of her life, and Bertha tells me that she has altered her will or is about to alter it. I cannot quite make out whether it is done or whether it is about to be done; but anyhow, Flo, you and I go back to Aylmer's Court to-night. By hook or by crook we will show ourselves, my love, and I will take the responsibility of leading you into your aunt's room, and you shall go on your knees and beg her forgiveness. That is what I have come about, Florence. It is not too late. Poor Bertha, I can see, is quite on our side. It is not too late, my love; we will catch the very next train."
"You don't know what you are saying, mother. It is absolutely impossible for me to go."
"My dearest Flo, why?"
"Let me tell you something. You blame Mr. Trevor."
"I always blame ungrateful people," said Mrs. Aylmer, putting on a most virtuous air.
"And yet," said Florence—"yes, I will speak. Do you know who the worthless girl was for whom he gave up great wealth and a high position?"
"How can I tell? I don't want to hear her name."
"Iwas that girl, mother."
"What do you mean?"
"And Bertha knew it," continued Florence; "she knew it well. Oh, I dare not say much against Bertha, but I won't have Mr. Trevor abused. He found out, mother, that, worthless as I am, he loved me. Oh, mother, pity me! pity me!"
Poor Florence suddenly fell on her knees. She bowed her head on the table and burst into tears. It was not often she cried. Mrs. Aylmer did not remember seeing Florence weep since that dreadful morning when they had both fled from Cherry Court in disgrace.
"Flo," she said, "Flo!"
"Pity me, Mummy; pity me!" said Florence.
The next instant the little Mummy's arms were round her.
"Oh, I am so glad you have a heart!" said the little Mummy, "and of course I don't blame him for loving you, but I do not understand it. Bertha could not have known. She said she was quite a low sort of person. Oh, Flo, my love, this is splendid! You will marry him, ofcourse! I don't believe Susan has altered her will. You will just get the riches in the very best possible way as his wife. I always said he was amostcharming young man. It was Bertha who turned me against him. She is awfully clever, Flo, and if I really thought——"
"I dare not say anything against Bertha, mother. But I cannot go to Aylmer's Court; you must not ask it. I am engaged now to Tom Franks, and I won't break my engagement off. I am a very, very unhappy girl."
There is little doubt that Mrs. Aylmer was very ill. Step by step an attack, which was apparently at first of little moment, became serious and then dangerous. The cold became pneumonia, the pneumonia became double pneumonia, and now there was a hard fight for life. Nurses were summoned, doctors were requisitioned, everything that wealth could do was employed for the relief and the recovery of the sick woman. But there are times when Death laughs at wealth, with all its contrivances and all its hopes: when Death takes very little heed of what friends say or what doctors do. Death has his own duty to perform, and Mrs. Aylmer's time had come. Notwithstanding the most recent remedies for the fell disease, notwithstanding the care of the best nurses London could supply and the skill of the cleverest doctors, Death entered that sick-chamber and stood by that woman's pillow and whispered to her that her hour had come.
Mrs. Aylmer, propped up in her bed so that she might breathe better, her face ghastly with the terrible exertion, called Bertha to her side. She could scarcely speak, but she managed to convey her meaning to the girl.
"I am very bad; I know I shall not recover."
"You have to make your will over again," said Bertha,who was as cool as cool could be in this emergency. Not one of the nurses could be more collected or calm than Bertha. She herself would have made a splendid nurse, for she had tact and sympathy, and the sort of voice which never grated on the ear. The doctors were almost in love with her: they thought they had never seen so capable a girl, so grave, so quiet, so suitably dressed, so invaluable in all emergencies.
Mrs. Aylmer could scarcely bear Bertha out of her sight, and the doctors said to themselves: "Small wonder!"
On the afternoon of the day when Mrs. Aylmer the less went to see Florence in London, Mrs. Aylmer the great went down another step in the dark valley. The doctor said that she might live for two or three days more, but that he did not think it likely. The disease was spreading, and soon it would be impossible for her to breathe. She was frightened. She had not spent a specially good life. She had given, it is true, large sums in charity, but she had not really ever helped the poor, and had not brought a smile to the lip or a tear of thankfulness to the eye. She had lived a hard life; she had thought far more of herself than of her neighbour, and now that she was about to die it seemed to her that she was not ready. For the first time, all the importance of money faded from her mind. No matter how rich she was and how great, she would have to leave the world with a naked, unclothed soul. She could not take any of her great possessions with her, nor could she offer to her Maker a single thing which would satisfy Him, when He made up the balance of her account. She was frightened about herself.
"Bertha," she said to her young companion, "come here, Bertha."
Bertha bent over her.
"Is it true that I am not going to get better?"
"You are very ill," said Bertha; "you ought to make your will."
"But I have made it: what do you mean?"
"I thought," said Bertha, "that"—she paused, then she said gravely: "you have not altered it since Maurice Trevor went away. I thought that you had made up your mind that he and Florence Aylmer were not to inherit your property."
"Of course I have," said the sick woman, a frightened, anxious look coming into her eyes. "Not that it much matters," she added, after a pause. "Florence is as good as another, and if Maurice really cares for her——"
"Oh, impossible," said Bertha; "you know you do not wish all your estates, your lands, your money, to pass into the hands of that wicked, deceitful girl."
"I have heard," said Mrs. Aylmer, still speaking in that gasping voice, "that Florence is doing great things for herself in London."
"What do you mean?"
"She is considered clever. She is writing very brilliantly. After all, there is such a thing as literary fame, and if at the eleventh hour she achieves it, why, she as well as another may inherit my wealth, and I am too tired, Bertha, too tired to worry now."
"You know she mustnothave your property!" said Bertha. "I will send for Mr. Wiltshire: you said youwould alter the will: it is only to add a codicil to the last one, and the deed is done."
"As you please," said Mrs. Aylmer.
Bertha hurried away.
Mr. Wiltshire, Mrs. Aylmer's lawyer, lived in the nearest town, five miles distant. Bertha wrote him a letter and sent a man on horseback to his house. The lawyer arrived about nine o'clock that evening.
"You must see her at once: she may not live till the morning," said Bertha. There was a pink spot on each of Bertha's cheeks, and her eyes were very bright.
"I made my client's will six months ago. All her affairs are in perfect order. What does this mean?" said Mr. Wiltshire.
"Mrs. Aylmer and I have had a long conversation lately, and I know Mrs. Aylmer wants to alter her will," said Bertha. "Mr. Trevor has offended her seriously: he has repudiated all her kindness and left the house."
"Dear, dear!" said the lawyer; "how sad!"
"How ungrateful, you mean!" said Bertha.
"That is quite true. How different from your conduct, my dear young lady."
As the lawyer spoke, he looked full into Bertha's excited face.
"Ah!" said Miss Keys, with a sigh, "if I had that wealth I should know what to do with it; for instance, you, Mr. Wiltshire, should not suffer."
Now, Mr. Wiltshire was not immaculate. He had often admired Bertha: he had thought her an extremely taking girl. It had even occurred to him that, under certain conditions, she might be a very suitable wife for him.He was a widower of ten years' standing.
"I will see my client now that I have come," he said, rising. "Perhaps you had better prepare her for my visit."
"She knows you are coming. I will take you up at once."
"But it may be too great a shock."
"Not at all; she is past all that sort of thing. Come this way."
Bertha and the lawyer entered the heavily-curtained, softly carpeted room. Their footsteps made no sound as they crossed the floor. The nurses withdrew and they approached the bedside. Bertha had ink and paper ready to hand. The lawyer held out his hand to Mrs. Aylmer.
"My dear, dear friend," he said, in that solemn voice which he thought befitting a death-bed and which he only used on these special occasions, "this is a most trying moment; but if I can do anything to relieve your mind, and to help you to a just disposition of the great wealth with which Providence has endowed you, it may ease your last moments."
"Yes," said Mrs. Aylmer, in a choking voice, "they are my last moments; but I think all my affairs are settled."
Bertha looked at him and withdrew. Her eyes seemed to say: "Take my part, and you will not repent it."
Mr. Wiltshire immediately took his cue.
"I am given to understand that Mr. Trevor has offended you," he said; "is that so?"
"He has, mortally; but I am too ill to worry now."
"It will be easy to put a codicil to your will if you haveany fresh desires with regard to your property," said Mr. Wiltshire.
"I am dying, Mr. Wiltshire. When you come to face death, you don't much care about money. It cannot go with you, you know."
"But it can stay behind you, my dear madam, and do good to others."
"True, true."
"I fear, I greatly fear that Mr. Trevor may squander it," said Mr. Wiltshire slowly.
"I have no one else to leave it to."
"There is that charming and excellent girl; but dare I suggest it?"
"Which charming and excellent girl?"
"Your secretary and companion, Miss Bertha Keys."
"Ay," said Mrs. Aylmer, "but I should be extremely sorry that she should inherit my money."
"Indeed, and why? No one has been more faithful to you. I know she does not expect a farthing; it would be a graceful surprise. She has one of the longest heads for business I have ever come across; she is an excellent girl."
"Write a codicil and put her name into it," said Mrs. Aylmer fretfully; "I will leave her something."
Pleased even with this assent, somewhat ungraciously given, the lawyer now sat down and wrote some sentences rapidly.
"The sum you will leave to her," he said: "ten, twenty, thirty, forty, shall we sayfiftythousand pounds, my dear Mrs. Aylmer?"
"Forty—fifty if you like—anything! Oh, I am choking—I shall die!" cried Mrs. Aylmer.
Mr. Wiltshire hastily inserted the words "fifty thousand pounds" in the codicil. He then took a pen, and called two of the nurses into the room.
"You must witness this," he said. "Please support the patient with pillows. Now, my dear Mrs. Aylmer, just put your name there."
The pen was put into the trembling hand.
"I am giving my money back to—but what does this mean?" Mrs. Aylmer pushed the paper away.
"Sign, sign," said the lawyer; "it is according to your instructions; it is all right. Sign it."
"Poor lady! It is a shame to worry her on the very confines of the grave," said one of the nurses angrily.
"Just write here; you know you have the strength. Here is the pen."
The lawyer put the pen into Mrs. Aylmer's hand. She held it limply for a minute and began to sign. The first letter of her Christian name appeared in a jagged form, the next letter was about to begin when the hand fell and the pen was no longer grasped in the feeble fingers.
"I am about to meet my Maker," she said, with a great sob; "send for the clergyman. Take that away."
"I shall not allow the lady to be worried any longer," said one of the nurses, with flashing eyes.
Mr. Wiltshire was defeated; so was Bertha Keys. The clergyman came and sat for a long time with the sick woman. She listened to what he had to say and then put a question to him.
"I am stronger than I was earlier in the day. I cando what I could not do a few hours back. Oh, I know well that I shall never recover, but before I go hence I want to give back what was entrusted to me."
"What do you mean by that?" he asked.
"I mean my money, my wealth; I wish to return it to God."
"Have you not made your will? It is always right that we should leave our affairs in perfect order."
"I wish to make a fresh will, and at once. My lawyer, Mr. Wiltshire, has come and gone. He wanted me to sign a codicil which would have been wicked. God did not wish it, so He took my strength away. I could not sign the codicil, but now I can sign a fresh will which may be made. If I dictate a fresh will to you, and I put my proper signature, and two nurses sign it, will it be legal?"
"Quite legal," replied the clergyman.
"I will tell you my wishes. Get paper."
The minister crossed the room, took a sheet of paper from a table which stood in the window, and prepared to write.
Mrs. Aylmer's eyes were bright, her voice no longer trembling, and she spoke quickly.
"I, Susan Aylmer, of Aylmer's Court, Shropshire, being quite in my right mind, leave, with the exception of a small legacy of fifty pounds a year to my sister-in-law, Mrs. Aylmer, of Dawlish, all the money I possess to two London hospitals to be chosen by my executor.—Have you putallthe money I possess?" she enquired.
"Yes; but is your will fair?" he said. "Have you no other relations to whom you ought to leave some of your wealth?"
"I give all that I possess back to God. He gave me my wealth, and He shall have it again," repeated Mrs. Aylmer; and she doubtless thought she was doing a noble thing.
This brief will was signed without any difficulty by the dying woman and attested by the two nurses. Two hours later, the rich woman left her wealth behind her and went to meet her God.
Nothing would induce Florence to go to Aylmer's Court and Mrs. Aylmer the less, in great distress of mind, was forced to remain with her in her flat that evening.
Florence gave her the very best that the flat contained, sleeping herself on the sofa in her sitting-room.
Mrs. Aylmer sat up late and talked and talked until she could talk no longer. At last Florence got her into bed, and then went to visit Edith in her room.
"You don't look well," said Edith; "your engagement has not improved you. What is the matter?"
"I don't exactly know what is the matter," said Florence. "I am worried about mother's visit. My aunt, Mrs. Aylmer, is dying. She is a very rich woman. Mother is under the impression that, if she and I went to Aylmer's Court, Mrs. Aylmer might leave me her property. I don't want it; I should hate to have it. I have learned in the last few months that money is not everything. I don't want to have Aunt Susan's money."
"Well," replied Edith, staring her full in the face, "that is the most sensible speech you have made for a long time. I have closely studied the question of economics, and have long ago come to the conclusion that the person of medium income is the only person who is truly happy.I am even inclined to believe that living from hand to mouth is the most enviable state of existence. You never know how the cards will turn up; but the excitement is intense. When I am a doctor, I shall watch people's faces with intense interest, wondering whether, when their next illness comes on, they will send for me; then there will be the counting up of my earnings, and putting my little money by, and livingjustwithin my means. And then I shall have such wide interests besides money: the cure of my patients, their love and gratitude to me afterwards. It is my opinion, Florence, that the more we liveoutsidemoney, and the smaller place money takes in the pleasures of our lives, the happier we are; for, after all, money can do so little, and I don't think any other people can be so miserable as the vastly rich ones."
"I agree with you," said Florence.
"It is more than Tom does," replied Edith, looking fixedly at her. "After all, Florence, are you not in some ways too good for my brother?"
"In some ways too good for him?" repeated Florence. She turned very white. "You don't know me," she added.
"I don't believe I do, and, it occurs to me, the more I am with you the less I know you. Florence, is it true that you have a secret in your life?"
"It is quite true," said Florence, raising her big dark eyes and fixing them on the face of her future sister-in-law.
"And is it a secret that Tom knows nothing about?"
"A secret, Edith, as you say, that Tom knows nothing about."
"How very dreadful! And you are going to marry him holding that secret?"
"Yes; I shall not reveal it. If I did, he would not marry me."
"But what is it, my dear? Won't you even tell me?"
"No, Edith. Tom marries me for a certain purpose. He gets what he wants. I do not feel that I am doing wrong in giving myself to him; but, wrong or right, the thing is arranged: why worry about it now?"
"You are a strange girl. I am sorry you are going to marry my brother. I do not believe you will be at all happy, but, as I have said already, I have expressed my opinion."
"The marriage is to take place quite quietly three weeks from now," said Florence. "We have arranged everything. We are not going to have an ordinary wedding. I shall be married in my travelling-dress. Tom says he can barely spend a week away from his editorial work, and he wants me to live in a flat with him at first."
"Oh, those flats are so detestable," said Edith; "no air, and you are crushed into such a tiny space; but I suppose Tom will sacrifice everything to the sitting-rooms."
"He means to have a salon: he wants to get all the great and witty and wise around us. It ought to be an interesting future," said Florence in a dreary tone.
Edith gazed at her again.
"Well," she said, after a pause, "I suppose great talent like yours does content one. You certainly are marvellously brilliant. I read your last story, and thought it the cleverest of the three. But I wish you were not so pessimistic.It is terrible not to help people. It seems to me you hinder people when you write as you do."
"I must write as the spirit moves me," said Florence, in a would-be flippant voice, "and Tom likes my writing; he says it grows on him."
"So much the worse for Tom."
"Well, I will say good-night now, Edith. I am tired, and mother will be disturbed if I go to bed too late."
Florence went into her own flat, shut and locked the door, and, lying down, tried to sleep. But she was excited and nervous, and no repose would come to her. Up to the present time, since her engagement, she had managed to keep thought at bay; but now thoughts the most terrible, the most dreary, came in like a flood and banished sleep. Towards morning she found herself silently crying.
"Oh, why cannot I break off my engagement with Tom Franks? Why cannot I tell Maurice Trevor the truth?" she said to herself.
Early the next day Mrs. Aylmer the less received a telegram from Bertha Keys. This was to announce the death of the owner of Aylmer's Court. Mrs. Aylmer the less immediately became almost frantic with excitement. She wanted to insist on Florence accompanying her at once to the Court. Florence stoutly refused to stir an inch. Finally the widow was obliged to go off without her daughter.
"There is little doubt," she said, "that we are both handsomely remembered. I, of course, have my fifty pounds a year—that was settled on me many years ago—but I shall have far more than that now, and you, my poor child, will have a nice tidy fortune, ten to twelveor twenty thousand pounds, and then if you will only marry Maurice Trevor, who inherits all the rest of the wealth, how comfortable you will be! I suppose you would like me to live with you at Aylmer's Court, would you not?"
"Oh, mother, don't," said poor Florence. "I have a feeling which I cannot explain that Mrs. Aylmer will disappoint everyone. Don't count on her wealth, mother. Oh, mother, don't think so much of money, for it is not the most important thing in the world."
"Money not the most important thing in the world!" said Mrs. Aylmer, backing and looking at her daughter with bright eyes of horror. "Flo, my poor child, you really are getting weak in your intellect."
A few moments afterwards she left, sighing deeply as she did so, and Florence, to her own infinite content, was left behind.
The next few days passed without anything special occurring; then the news of Mrs. Aylmer's extraordinary will was given to Florence in her mother's graphic language.
"Although she is dead, poor thing, she certainly always was a monster," wrote the widow. "I cannot explain to you what I feel. I have begged of Mr. Trevor to dispute the will; but, would you believe it?—unnatural man that he is, he seems more pleased than otherwise.
"My little money is still to the fore, but no one else seems to have been remembered. As to that poor dear Bertha Keys, she has not been left a penny. If she had not saved two or three hundred pounds during the time of her companionship to that heathenish woman, she wouldnow be penniless. It is a fearful blow, and I cannot think for which of our sins it has been inflicted on us. It is too terrible, and the way Maurice Trevor takes it is the worst of all."
When Florence read this letter, she could not help clapping her hands.
"I cannot understand it," she said to herself; "but a great load seems to have rolled away from me. Of course, I never expected Aunt Susan's money, but mother has been harping upon it as long as I can remember. I don't think Maurice wanted it greatly. It seemed to me that that money brought a curse with it. I wonder if things are going to be happier now. Oh, dear, I am glad—yes, I am glad that it has not been left to any of us."
Florence's feelings of rapture, however, were likely soon to be mitigated. Her wedding-day was approaching.
Mrs. Aylmer the less, who had at first told Florence that she could not on any account marry for three or four months, owing to the sad death in the family, wrote now to say that the sooner she secured Tom Franks the better.
"Maurice Trevor is a pauper," she said, "not worth any girl's serious consideration. Marry Mr. Franks, my dear Florence; he is not up to much, but doubtless he is the best you can get. You need not show the smallest respect to Susan Aylmer; the wedding need not be put off a single hour on her account."
Nor did Flo nor Tom intend to postpone the wedding. Mrs. Aylmer had not been loved by Florence, and, as the couple were to be married quietly, there was not the least occasion why the ceremony should be delayed. Florence had not a trousseau, in the ordinary sense of the word.
"I have no money," she said, looking full at Edith.
Tom Franks happened to come into the room at the time.
"What are you talking about?" he said. "By the way, here is a letter for you."
As he spoke, he laid a letter on the table near Florence's side. She glanced at it, saw that it was in the handwriting of Bertha Keys, and did not give it a further thought.
"Flo is thinking about her trousseau; all brides require trousseaux," said Edith, who, although unorthodox in most things, did not think it seemly that a bride should go to the altar without fine clothes.
"But why should we worry about a trousseau?" replied Tom. "I take Florence for what she is, not for her dress; and I can give you things in Paris," he added, looking at her. "I have some peculiar ideas, and my own notions with regard to your future dress. You want a good deal of rich colour, and rich stuffs, and nothing too girlish. You are very young, but you will look still younger if you are dressed somewhat old, as I mean to dress you. We will get your evening dress in Paris. I am not a rich man, but I have saved up money for the purpose."
"I don't really care about clothes at all," said Florence.
"I know that; but you will change your mind. With your particular style, you must be careful how you dress. I will manage it. Don't waste your money on anything now. I want you to come to me as you are."
Tom then sat down near Florence, and began to give her particulars with regard to several flats which he had looked over. He was a keen man of business, and talked £.s.d.until the girl was tired of the subject.
"I shall take the flat in Fortescue Mansions to-morrow morning," he said finally; "it will just suit us. There is a very fine reception-room, and, what is still better, all the reception-rooms open one into the other. We must begin to give our weekly salons as soon as ever you return from your wedding tour, Florence."
"Surely you will wait until people call on Florence?" interrupted Edith. "You are too quick, Tom, for anything. You must not transgress all the ordinary rules of society."
Tom looked at his sister, shut up his firm lips, and turned away; he did not even vouchsafe to answer.
A moment later, he left the room. It was his custom when he met Florence to kiss her coldly on the forehead, and to repeat this ceremony when he left her. He did not neglect this little attention on the present occasion. As his steps, in his patent-leather boots, were heard descending the stairs, Edith saw Florence raise her handkerchief to her forehead and rub the spot which Tom's lips had touched.
"How heartily you dislike him!" said Edith. "I would not marry him if I were you."
Florence made no reply. She took up her letter and prepared to leave the room.
"Why do you go? There is a good fire here, and there is none in your room. Sit by the fire, and make yourself comfy. I am going out for a little."
Edith pinned on her hat as she spoke, and a moment later left the flat. Florence looked around her. She sank into an easy-chair, and opened the letter. It was, as she already knew, from Bertha. She began to read it languidly, but soon its contents caused her to start; her eyes grew bright with a strange mixture of fear, relief, and apprehension. Bertha had written as follows:—