"My Darling Child—
"My Darling Child—
"The queerest thing has happened. I cannot possibly account for it. I have been robbed of five pounds. I was on the sands yesterday talking to a very pleasant jolly fat little man, who interested me by telling me that he knew London, and that he considered I had done extremely wrong in allowing you to go there without a chaperon. He described the dangers to which young girls were subjected in such terrible and fearful language that I very nearly screamed."I thanked him for his advice, and told him that I would write to you immediately and ask you to come home. My darling, it would be better for us both tostarve at home than for you to run the risks which he has hinted at."But to come to the real object of this letter. I am five pounds short, my dear Florry—I had five pounds in my pocket, two of which I had received unexpectedly, and three from my very, very tiny income. Sukey and I were going to have quite a little turn-out—a nice tea-party; but fortunately, most fortunately, Providence prevented my ordering the buns and cakes, or sending out the invitations, and when I came in my money was gone. Of course it was not the little man, so do not point your suspicions at him. Somebody robbed the widow. Oh, what a judgment will yet fall upon that head!"Dear Flo, I know you have something by you—how large a sum you have never confided to your poor mother. Will you lend me five pounds, darling, and send it at once? Quarter-day is coming on, and I have several things to meet. Do not hesitate, my love: it shall be returned to you when I get my next allowance."I will write to you later on with regard to your coming back to Dawlish. In the meantime think of your poor mother's distress, and do your utmost for her."
"The queerest thing has happened. I cannot possibly account for it. I have been robbed of five pounds. I was on the sands yesterday talking to a very pleasant jolly fat little man, who interested me by telling me that he knew London, and that he considered I had done extremely wrong in allowing you to go there without a chaperon. He described the dangers to which young girls were subjected in such terrible and fearful language that I very nearly screamed.
"I thanked him for his advice, and told him that I would write to you immediately and ask you to come home. My darling, it would be better for us both tostarve at home than for you to run the risks which he has hinted at.
"But to come to the real object of this letter. I am five pounds short, my dear Florry—I had five pounds in my pocket, two of which I had received unexpectedly, and three from my very, very tiny income. Sukey and I were going to have quite a little turn-out—a nice tea-party; but fortunately, most fortunately, Providence prevented my ordering the buns and cakes, or sending out the invitations, and when I came in my money was gone. Of course it was not the little man, so do not point your suspicions at him. Somebody robbed the widow. Oh, what a judgment will yet fall upon that head!
"Dear Flo, I know you have something by you—how large a sum you have never confided to your poor mother. Will you lend me five pounds, darling, and send it at once? Quarter-day is coming on, and I have several things to meet. Do not hesitate, my love: it shall be returned to you when I get my next allowance.
"I will write to you later on with regard to your coming back to Dawlish. In the meantime think of your poor mother's distress, and do your utmost for her."
Florence let the letter drop from her hands. She sat before her frugal board, and slowly and listlessly raised her cup of tea to her lips.
"I seem to be pushed gradually nearer and nearer the edge," she said to herself. "What possessed mother to lose that money? Of course the man was a thief. Mother is so silly, and she really gets worse as she growsolder. Dear little Mummy, I love her with all my heart; but her want of common-sense does try me sometimes."
The day was going to be a particularly hot one. There was a mist all over the horizon, and the breeze was moving languidly.
Florence had her window wide open, and was wondering how she could live through the day. To-day was Saturday. To-morrow she would have a pleasant time. She looked forward to meeting Maurice Trevor more than she dared to admit to herself. She wondered what sort of woman his mother was.
"At any rate," she said to herself, "he is nice. I like him, and I am sure he likes me, and we shall enjoy ourselves on Hampstead Heath. It won't be so hot there; it will be a little bit of the country. I must send mother the five pounds, and I suppose I need not decide about that awful manuscript till Monday."
These thoughts had scarcely come into her head before there came a knock at her door. Florence went to open it, and Edith Franks, very neatly dressed, and looking business-like and purposeful, with bright eyes and a clear colour in her cheeks, stood on the threshold.
"How do you do?" she said. "I am just off to my work. I am about to have a very hard day, but I thought I would refresh myself with a sight of you. May I come in?"
"Please do," said Florence, but she did not look altogether happy as she gave the invitation. Her bed was unmade, her dressing things were lying about, her breakfast was just the sort which she did not wish the keen-eyed medical student to see. There was no help for it, however.Edith Franks had come up for the purpose of spying into the nakedness of the land, and spy she did. She looked quickly round her in that darting, bird-like manner which characterised all her movements. She saw the untidy room, she noticed the humble, insufficient meal.
Edith Franks had the kindest heart in the world; but she was sometimes a little, just a very little destitute of tact.
"My dear," she said, "may I sit down? Your stairs really take one's breath away. I know now what I specially came for. Tom has promised to call for me this morning."
"Who is Tom?" asked Florence.
"Don't you know? What a short memory you have! I told you something about him last night—my clever journalist brother. He is on the staff of theDaily Tidings, and the new six-penny magazine that people talk so much about, theArgonaut. He has a splendid post, and has great influence. If you will entrust that precious manuscript to me, I will let Tom see it. He is the best of judges. If he says it is worth anything, your fortune is made. If, on the other hand—"
"Oh, but he won't like it, and I think I would rather not," said Florence. She turned very pale as she spoke. Edith gave her another glance.
"Let me have it," she said. "Tom's seeing it means nothing. I will get him to run his eye over it while we are at lunch together. Here, get it for me; there's a good girl."
Florence rose. Her feet seemed weighted with lead. She unlocked her drawer, took out the manuscript, andnearly flung it at Edith's head. She restrained herself, however, and stood with it in her hand looking as undecided as a girl could look.
"You tempt me mightily," she said; "why do you tempt me?"
"To get money for what is such splendid work," said Miss Franks, with a gay laugh. "I am glad I tempt you, for you want money, you poor, proud, queer girl. I like you—I like you much, but you must just let me help you over this crisis. Give it to me, my dear."
She nearly snatched the manuscript from Florence, and thrust it into a small leather bag which she wore at her side.
"Tom shall tell you what he thinks of it, and now ta! ta!"
Miss Franks was heard tripping downstairs as fast as her feet could carry her, and Florence covered her face with her hands.
"I have yielded," she said to herself. "What is to be done?" She got up desperately.
"I must not think, that is evident," was her next sensation. She could not take any more breakfast. She was too tired, too stunned, too unnerved. She dressed herself slowly, and determined, after posting the necessary money to her mother, to go the round of the different registry-offices where she had entered her name.
"If there is any chance, any chance at all, I will tell Edith Franks the truth to-night," she said to herself. "If there is no chance of my earning money—why, this sum that mother has demanded of me means the reducing of my store to seven pounds and some odd silver—I shall be penniless before many weeks are over. What is to be done?"
Florence wrote a short letter to her mother. She made no allusions whatever to the little woman's comments with regard to the dangers in which she herself was placed.
"I am extremely likely to die of starvation, but there is no other danger in my living alone in London," shethought, with a short laugh. And then she went to a post-office and got the necessary postal orders, and put them into the letter, and registered it and sent it off.
"Oh, Mummy, do be careful," she said, in the postscript; "it has been rather hard to spare you this, though, of course I do it with a heart and a half."
Afterwards poor Florence went the dreary round—from Harley-street to Bond-street, from Bond-street to Regent-street, from Regent-street to the Strand did she wander, and in each registry-office she received the same reply: "There is nothing at all likely to suit you."
At last, in a little office in Fleet-street, she was handed the address of a lady who kept a school, and who might be inclined to give Florence a small post.
"The lady came in late last night," said the young woman who spoke to her across a crowded counter, "and she said she wanted someone to come and live in the house and look after a lot of girls, and she would be glad to make arrangements, as term would begin in about a fortnight. You might look her up. I know the salary will be very small; but I think she is willing to give board and lodging."
Slightly cheered by this vestige of hope, Florence mounted an omnibus, and presently found herself at South Kensington. She found the right street, and stopped before a door of somewhat humble dimensions. She rang the bell. A charwoman opened the door after some delay, told her that Mrs. Fleming was within, and asked her what her message was.
Florence said she had come after the post which Mrs. Fleming was offering.
The charwoman looked dubious.
"I wouldn't if I was you," she said, in a low voice, hiding both her hands under her apron as she spoke.
Florence would not condescend to consult with the charwoman whether she was to accept the situation or not. She simply said: "Will you tell your mistress that I am here?"
"A wilful lass," muttered the old woman, "and I told her she had better not." She shambled across a dirty passage, and opened a door at the farther end. A moment later Florence found herself in the presence of a tall woman with a very much powdered face and untidy hair. This personage was dressed in rusty black, wore a dirty collar and cuffs, and had hands evidently long strangers to soap-and-water. She invited Florence to seat herself, and looked her all over.
"H'm! you've come after the situation. Your name, please."
"Florence Aylmer."
"Your age?"
"I am nearly twenty-one."
"Very young. Have you had experience in controlling the follies of youth?"
"I have been pupil teacher at my last school for over a year," said Florence.
"Ah, and where was your school?"
Florence mentioned it.
"Have you ever got into any scrape of any sort, been a naughty girl, or anything of that kind? I have to make most searching enquiries."
"Why do you ask?" said Florence. She coloured first, and then turned very pale.
Mrs. Fleming gazed at her with hawk-like eyes.
"Why don't you answer?"
"Because I cannot see," replied Florence, with some spirit, "that you have any right to ask me the question. I can give you excellent testimonials from the mistress of the school where I was living."
"That will not do. I find that nothing so influences youth as that the instructress should give an epitome of her own life, should be able plainly to show howshehas conquered temptation, and risen even above theappearanceof evil. If there is a flaw in the governess, there will also be a flaw in the pupils—understand, eh?"
"Yes, madam," said Florence; "I am afraid your post won't suit me. I have certainly a great many flaws; I never supposed you wanted a perfect governess."
"Impertinent," said Mrs. Fleming. "Here am I ready to offer you the shelter of my roof, the excellent food which always prevails in this establishment, and fifteen pounds a year, and yet you talk in that lofty tone. You are a very silly young woman. I am quite sure you won't suit me."
"It is a foregone conclusion," said Florence, indulging in a little pertness as she saw that the situation would no more suit her than she it. She walked towards the door.
"I will wish you good morning," she said.
"Stay one moment. What can you teach?"
"Nothing that will suit you."
"I must certainly remove my name from that registry-office.I stipulated that I should see godly maidens of spotless character. You, who evidently have a shady past, dare to come to me to offer your polluted services! I will wish you good morning."
"I have already wished you good morning," said Florence. She turned without another word, and, not deigning to ask the assistance of the charwoman, left the house.
When she got to the street she was trembling.
"It is hard for girls like me to earn their own bread," she said to herself. "What is to be done? Nearer and nearer am I getting to the edge of the cliff. What is to be done?"
She returned home, and spent the rest of the day in a state of intense depression. Her attic was so suffocating that she could not stay in it, but there was a general sitting-room downstairs, and she went there and contrived to make herself as wretched as she could over a well-thumbed novel which another girl had left behind her on the previous evening.
A certain Miss Mitford, the head of this part of the establishment, wandered in, saw that Florence was quite alone, noticed how ill and wretched she looked, and sat down near her.
"Your name is, I think, Aylmer," said this good woman.
"Yes: Florence Aylmer," replied Florence, and she scarcely raised her eyes from her book.
"You don't look very well. I am going for a little drive: a friend of mine is lending me her carriage. I have plenty of room for you; will you come with me?"
"Do you mean it?" said Florence, raising languid eyes.
"I certainly do. My friend has a most comfortable carriage. We will drive to Richmond Park. What do you say?"
"That I thank you very much, and I—"
"Of course you'll come."
"Yes, I'll come," said Florence. She ran upstairs more briskly than she had done yet. The thought of the drive, and the peace of being alone with a woman who knew absolutely nothing about her, was soothing. Miss Mitford was not remarkable for her penetration of character, but she was essentially kind.
The carriage arrived and she and Florence got in. They drove for a quarter of a mile without either of them uttering a word; then the coachman drew up at a shabby house. Miss Mitford got out, ran up the steps, and rang the bell; in a moment or two three little girls with very pasty faces and lack-lustre eyes appeared.
"I am sorry I was late, dears," said Miss Mitford; "but jump in: there is room for us all in the barouche."
Florence felt now almost happy. There was no chance of Miss Mitford discovering her secret. Indeed, the superintendent of No. 12, Prince's Mansions, had not the faintest idea of enquiring into Florence's affairs. She could bestow a passing kindness on a sad-looking girl, but it was not her habit to enquire further. She chatted to the children, and Florence joined in. Presently she found herself laughing.
When they reached the park, they all alighted and sat under the trees, and Miss Mitford produced a mysterious little basket, out of which she took milk and sponge-cakes,and Florence enjoyed her feast just as much as the children did. It was seven o'clock when she arrived home again, and Edith Franks was waiting for her in the downstair hall.
The moment Edith saw Florence, she went up to her, seized her by the arm, and said, in an imperious voice: "You must come with me to my room immediately."
"But why?" asked Miss Aylmer, trying to release herself from the firm grip in which Edith Franks held her.
"Because I have something most important to tell you."
Florence did not reply. She had been cheered and comforted by her drive, and she found that Edith Franks, with all her kindness, had a most irritating effect upon her. There was nothing for it, however, but to comply, and the two went upstairs as far as the third story together. There they entered Edith's sitting-room. She pushed Florence down on the sofa, and, still keeping a hand on each of her shoulders, said emphatically: "Tom: read it."
"What do you mean?" was Florence's almost inane answer.
"How stupid you are!" Edith gave her a little shake. "When I am excited—I to whom it means practically nothing, why should not you be? Tom read it, and he means to show it to his chief. You are made, and I have made you. Kiss me; let me congratulate you. You will starve no longer; you will have plenty. What is more, you will have fame. You will be courted by the great; you have an honourable future in front of you. Look up!Lose that lack-lustre expression in your eyes. Oh, good gracious! the girl is ill." For Florence had turned ghastly white.
"This is a case for a doctor," said Edith Franks; "lie down—that is better." She pulled the cushions away from the sofa and pushed Florence into a recumbent position.
"I have some sal volatile here; you must drink it."
Edith rushed across the room, took the necessary bottle from her medical shelf, prepared a dose, and brought it to the half-fainting girl.
Florence sipped it slowly. The colour came back into her cheeks, and her eyes looked less dazed.
"Now you are more yourself. What was the matter with you?"
"But you—you have not given it; he—he has not shown it—"
"You really are most provoking," said Miss Franks. "I don't know why I take so much trouble for you—a stranger. I have given you what would have taken you months to secure for yourself: the most valuable introduction into the very best quarter for the disposal of your wares. Oh, you are a lucky girl. But there, you shall dine with me to-night."
"I cannot."
"Too proud, eh?"
"Oh, you don't know my position," said poor Florence.
"Nonsense! Go up to your room and have a rest. I will come for you in a quarter of an hour. I have ordered dinner for two already. If you don't eat it, it will be thrown away."
"I am afraid it will have to be thrown away! I—I don't feel well."
"You are a goose; but if you are ill, you shall stay here and I will nurse you."
"No; I think I'll go upstairs. I want to be alone."
Florence staggered across the room as she spoke. Edith Franks looked at her for a moment in a puzzled way.
"I shall expect you down to dinner," she said. "Dinner will be ready in a quarter of an hour. Mind, I shall expect you."
Florence made no answer. She slowly left the room, closing the door after her, and retired to her own apartment.
Edith Franks clasped both her hands to her head.
"Well, really," she thought, "why should I put myself out about an ungrateful girl of that sort? But there, she is deeply interesting: one of those strange vagaries of genius. She is a psychological study, beyond doubt. I must see plenty of her. I have a great mind to take up psychology as my special branch of the profession; it is so deeply, so appallingly interesting. Poor girl, she has great genius! When that story is published all the world will know. I never saw Tom so excited about anything. He said: 'There is stuff in this.' He said it after he had read a page; he said it again when he had gone half-way through the manuscript; and he clapped his hands at the end and said: 'Bravo!' I know what that means from Tom. He is the most critical of men. He distrusts everything until it has proved itself good, and yet he accepted the talent of that story without a demur."
Miss Franks hurriedly moved about the room, changed her dress, smoothed her hair, washed her hands, looked at her little gun-metal watch, saw that the quarter of an hour had expired, and tripped downstairs to the dining-room.
"Will she be there, or will she not?" thought Edith Franks to herself.
She looked eagerly into the great room with its small tables covered with white cloths. There were seats in the dining-room for one hundred and fifty people.
Edith Franks, however, looked over to a certain corner, and there, at one of the tables, quietly waiting for her, and also neatly dressed, sat Florence Aylmer.
"That is right," said Miss Franks; "you are coming to your senses."
"Yes," answered Florence, "I am coming to my senses."
There was a bright flush on each of her cheeks, and her eyes were brilliant: she looked almost handsome.
Edith gazed at her with admiration.
"So you are drinking in the delicious flattery: you are preparing for the fame which awaits you," said the medical student.
"I want to say one thing, Miss Franks," remarked Florence, bending forward.
"What is that?"
"When you came up this morning to my room I did not wish to give you the manuscript; you took it from me almost by force. You promised further that your brother's seeing it would mean nothing. You did not keep your word. Your brother has seen it, and, from what you tellme, he approves of it. From what you tell me further, he is going to show it in a certain quarter where its success will be more or less assured. Of course, you and he may be both mistaken, and after all the story which you think so highly of may be worth nothing; that remains to be proved."
"It is worth a great deal; the world will talk about it," said Edith Franks.
"But I don't want the world to talk of it," said Florence. "I didn't wish to be pushed and hurried as I have been. I did wrong to consult you, and yet I know you meant to be kind. You have not been kind: you have been the reverse; but you havemeantto be kind, and I thank you for your intention. Things must go their own way. I have been hard pressed and I have yielded; only please do not ask me to talk about it. When your brother receives news I shall be glad to know; but even then I want to hear the fate of the manuscript without comment from you. That is what I ask. If you will promise that, I will accept your dinner. I am very proud, and it pains me to accept charity from anyone; but I will accept your dinner and be grateful to you: only will you promise not to talk of the manuscript any more?"
"Certainly, my dear," answered Edith Franks. "Have a potato, won't you?"
As Edith helped Florence to a floury potato, she exclaimed, under her breath: "A little mad, poor girl: a most interesting psychological study."
It was a most glorious Sunday, and Florence felt cheered as she dressed for her visit to Hampstead. She resolved to put all disagreeable things out of sight.
"I fell before," she said to herself, "and I am falling again. I am afraid there is nothing good in me: there is certainlynothingstable in me. I yielded to temptation when I was a girl at school, and I am yielding now. I have put myself again into the power of an unscrupulous woman. But for to-day at least I will be happy; I will banish dull care."
So she made herself look as bright and pretty as she could in a white washing dress. She wore a smart sailor hat, and, putting on some white washing gloves, ran downstairs. On one of the landings she met Edith Franks.
"Whither away?" asked that young lady.
"I am going to Hampstead to spend the day with friends."
"That is very nice. I know Hampstead well. What part are you going to?"
"Close to the heath: to people of the name of Trevor."
"Not surely to Mrs. Trevor, of Rose View?" exclaimed Edith Franks, starting back a step and raising her brows as she spoke.
"Yes."
"And do you know her son, that most charming fellow, Maurice Trevor?"
"I know him slightly."
"Oh, but this is really delightful. We have been friends with the Trevors, Tom and I, ever since we were children. This seems to be quite a new turn to our friendship, does it not?"
Florence felt herself both cold and stiff. She longed to be friendly with Edith, who was, she was well aware, all that was kind; nevertheless, a strange sensation of depression and of coming trouble was over her.
"She is kind; but she may tempt me to do what is wrong," thought poor Florence.
"I don't know the Trevors well," she answered. "I have met Mr. Trevor once or twice, but I have never even seen his mother. His mother has been kind enough to ask me to spend to-day with her. I will say good-bye now."
"Be sure you give my love to dear Mrs. Trevor, and remember me to Maurice. Tell him, with my kind regards, that I commiserate him very much."
"Why so?" asked Florence.
"Because he has had the bad luck to be adopted by a rich, eccentric old lady, and he will lose all his personality. Tell him I wouldn't be in his shoes for anything, and now ta! ta! I see you are dying to be off."
Edith went back to her room, and Florence ran downstairs, entered an omnibus which would convey her the greater part of the way to Hampstead, and arrived there a little before ten o'clock. As she was walking up thelittle path to the Trevors' cottage, Maurice Trevor came down to meet her.
"How do you do?" he said, shaking hands with her and taking her immediately into the house.
Mrs. Trevor was standing in the porch.
"This is Miss Aylmer, mother," said the young man.
Mrs. Trevor held out her hand, looked earnestly into Florence's face, then drew her towards her and kissed her.
"I am glad to see you, my dear," she said; "my son has told me about you. Welcome to Rose View; I hope you like the place."
Florence looked around her and gave an exclamation of surprise and delight. The house was a very small one, but it stood in a perfect bower of roses: they were climbing all over the house, and blooming in the garden: there were standard roses, yellow, white, and pink, moss-roses, the old-fashioned cabbage-rose, and Scotch roses, little white and red ones.
"I never saw anything like it," said Florence, forgetting herself in her astonishment and delight.
Mrs. Trevor watched her face.
"She is a nice girl, but she has some trouble behind," thought the widow to herself.
"We will go round the garden," she said; "it is not time for church yet. I am not able to go this morning, but Maurice will take you presently. You have just to cross the heath and you can go to a dear little church, quite in the depths of the country. I never need change of air here in my rose-bower. But come: what roses shall I pick for you?"
"I must give Miss Aylmer her flowers, as she is practicallymy guest," said Trevor, coming forward at that moment. He picked a moss-rose bud and a few Scotch roses, made them into a posy, and gave them to Florence. She placed the flowers in her belt; her cheeks were already bright with colour, and her eyes were dewy with happiness. She bent down several times to sniff the fragrance of the flowers. Mrs. Trevor drew her out to talk, and soon she was chatting and laughing, and looked like a girl who had not a care in the world.
"I never saw anything so sweet," she said. "How have you managed to make all these roses bloom at once?"
"I study roses; they are my specialty. I think roses are the great joy of my life," said Mrs. Trevor. But as she spoke she glanced at her stalwart, handsome son, and Florence guessed that he was his mother's idol, and wondered how she could part with him to Mrs. Aylmer.
"The church bells are beginning to ring," he said suddenly; "would you like to go to church or would you rather just wander about the heath?"
"I think I would rather stay on the heath this morning," said Florence. She coloured as she spoke. "I do not feel very churchy," she added.
"All right: we'll have our service out of doors then; we'll be back, mother, in time for lunch."
Trevor raised the latch of the gate as he spoke, and Florence and he went out into what the girl afterwards called an enchanted world. Florence during that walk was light-hearted as a lark and forgot all her cares.
Trevor made himself a very agreeable companion. He had from the first felt a great sympathy for Florence. He was not at that time in love with her, but he did think her a specially attractive girl, and, believing that she was sorrowful, and also having a sort of latent feeling that he himself was doing her an injury by being Mrs. Aylmer's heir, he was more attentive to her and more sympathetic in his manner than he would otherwise have been.
They found a shady dell on the heath where they sat and talked of many things. It was not until it was nearly time to return home, and they saw the people coming away from the little church down in the vale, that Trevor looked at his companion and said abruptly: "I do wish you and the mother could live together. Do you think it could be managed?"
"I don't know," said Florence, starting; "for some things I should like it."
"I cannot tell you," he continued, flushing slightly as he spoke, "what a great satisfaction it would be to me. Imust be frank with you. I always feel that I have done you a great injury."
"You certainly have not done me an injury; you have added to the pleasure of my life," said Florence.
"I do not suppose we shall see a great deal of each other, and I often wonder why. If I am to be Mrs. Aylmer's heir I shall have to spend most of my life with her; but then, so long as you are in the world, I ought not to hold that position."
"Oh, never mind about that," said Florence.
"She is your aunt?"
"She is my aunt by marriage. It does not matter. We don't get on together. She—she never wishes to see me nor to hear of me."
"But I wonder why; it seems very hard on you. You and your mother are poor, whilst I am no relation. Why should I usurp your place—in fact, be your supplanter?"
"You are not. If you did not have the money, someone else would. I should never be my aunt's heiress."
"And yet she knows you?"
"She did know me."
"Did you ever do anything to offend her?"
"I am afraid I did."
Trevor was on the point of asking "What?" but there was an expression in Florence's face which stayed the word on his lips. She had turned white again, and the tired, drawn expression had come to her eyes.
"You must come home now and have lunch," he said; "afterwards I will take you for another walk, and show you some fresh beauties."
They rose slowly and went back to the house. Lunchwas waiting for them, and during the meal Mrs. Trevor and Maurice talked on many things which delighted and interested Florence immensely. They were both highly intelligent, had a passionate love for horticulture, and also were well read on many other subjects. Florence found some of her school knowledge now standing her in good stead.
In the course of the meal she mentioned Edith Franks.
Both mother and son laughed when her name was spoken of.
"What! that enthusiastic, silly girl who actually wants to be a doctor?" cried Mrs. Trevor. "She is a first-rate girl herself, but her ideas are—"
"You must not say anything against Edith Franks, mother," exclaimed her son. "For my part, I think she is very plucky. I have no doubt," he added, "that women doctors can do very good work."
"She is much too learned for me, that is all," replied Mrs. Trevor; "but I hear she is to undergo her examinations in America. I trust the day will never come when it will be easy for a woman to obtain her medical degree in this country. It is horrible to think of anything so unfeminine."
"I do not think Edith Franks is unfeminine," said Florence. "She has been awfully kind to me. I think she is experimenting on me now."
"And that you don't like, my dear?"
"She is very good to me," repeated Florence, "but I do not like it."
Mrs. Trevor smiled, and Maurice gave Florence a puzzled, earnest glance.
"I do wish, mother," he said suddenly, "that you could arrange to have Miss Aylmer living with you."
"Oh, my dear, it would be much too far, and I know she would not like it. If she has to work for her living, she must be nearer town."
"I am afraid it would not do," said Florence, with a sigh; "but, of course, I—I should love it."
"You have not anything to do yet, have you?" asked Trevor.
"Not exactly." She coloured and looked uncomfortable.
He gave her a keen glance, and once more the thought flashed through Mrs. Trevor's mind: "The girl is hiding a secret; she has a sorrow: what is she trying to conceal? I wish I could draw her secret from her."
The meal over, Trevor and Florence once more wandered on the heath. The day, which had been so sunny and bright in the morning, was now slightly overcast, and they had not walked half a mile before rain overtook them. They had quite forgotten to provide themselves with umbrellas, and Florence's thin dress was in danger of becoming wet through.
As they walked quickly back now, they were overtaken by a man who said to Florence: "I beg your pardon, but may I offer you this umbrella?"
Before she could reply, the stranger looked at Trevor and uttered an exclamation.
"Why, Tom!" cried Trevor. He shook hands heartily with him, and introduced him to Florence: "Mr. Franks—Miss Aylmer."
"Aylmer?" said the young man; "are you called Florence Aylmer?" He looked full at the girl.
"Yes, and you have a sister called Edith Franks," she answered.
All the colour had left her face, her eyes were full of a sort of dumb entreaty. Trevor gazed at her in astonishment.
"You must come back and see my mother, Franks," he continued, turning again to the young man. "It is very kind of you to offer your umbrella to Miss Aylmer, but I think you must share it with her."
There was no help for it. Florence had to walk under Mr. Franks's umbrella; she had seldom found herself in a more awkward position.
"Of course," she thought, "he will speak of the manuscript."
She rushed recklessly into conversation in order to avoid this, but in vain. During the first pause Mr. Franks said: "I have good news for you, Miss Aylmer. I showed your story to my chief, Anderson, last night. I begged of him to read it at once. He did so to oblige me. He will take it for theArgonaut. I thought you would be glad. He wants you to call at the office to-morrow, when he will arrange terms with you.—Forgive us, won't you, Trevor, for talking business; but it was such a chance, coming across Miss Aylmer like this, and I thought she would like to know as soon as possible what a great success she has made."
Trevor glanced at Florence in some astonishment.
"Does this mean that you write?" he said, "and that you have had an article accepted?"
"A very promising article accepted extremely willingly," said Franks. "Miss Aylmer deserves your hearty congratulations, Trevor. She is a very fortunate young lady indeed."
"I know I am, and I am grateful," said Florence.
Trevor again looked at her.
"She is not happy. What can be wrong?" he said to himself.
"Have you ever published anything before?" continued Franks.
"Never."
"Well, you are lucky. Your style—I do not want to flatter you, but your style is quite formed. You must have been a very successful essay-writer at school."
"No, I never wrote much," said poor Florence. "I—I hate writing," she said the next moment. The words burst impetuously from her lips.
"By all that's wonderful! what do you mean by that? Surely it would be absolutely impossible for anyone who hated writing to do so with your ease and fluency!"
"We are nearly home now, and Miss Aylmer seems very tired," said Trevor. "Will you come in, Franks?"
"No, thanks; I must be getting home. You will call at our office to-morrow, Miss Aylmer?"
"Thank you," said Florence; "at what hour?"
"I shall be in and will introduce you to my chief if you can come at twelve o'clock. Well, good-bye for the present." He raised his hat to Florence, favoured her with a keen glance, said good-bye to Trevor, and turned away.
"I must congratulate you," said Trevor, as the young man and the girl walked up the little path to the house.
"What for?" she asked. She raised her eyes full of dumb misery to his face.
"For having won a success, and a very honourable one."
"Oh, don't ask me any more," she said; "please, please don't speak of it. I thought I should be so happy to-day."
"But does not this make you happy? I do not understand."
"It makes me terribly miserable. I cannot explain. Please don't ask me."
"I won't; only just let me say that, whatever it is, I am sorry for you."
He held out his hand. The next moment he had taken hers. Her hand, which had been trembling, lay still in his palm. He clasped his own strong, firm hand over it.
"I wish I could help you," he said, in a low voice, and then they both entered the house.
Mrs. Trevor, through the little latticed window in the tiny drawing-room, had witnessed this scene.
"What?" she said to herself. "Is my boy really falling in love with that nice, interesting, but unhappy girl? Of course, I shall not oppose him; but I almost wish it were not to be."
Tea was ready prepared. The sun came out after the heavy shower, and Florence found the Trevors even more kind and agreeable than they had been at lunch. When the meal was over, Trevor called his mother out of the room. He spoke to her for a few moments alone, and then she re-entered the little drawing-room.
Florence was seated by the open window, looking out. She was resting her chin on the palm of her hand as she gazed across the rose-garden. At that moment Trevor went quietly by. He stooped to pick one or two roses; then he turned and looked at Florence. Florence smiled very faintly, and a rush of colour came into Trevor's face. Mrs. Trevor then came up to Florence and spoke.
"I do it because my son wishes it," she said, "and I also do it because I take an interest in you. He has told me of your great success in the literary market. You, young and inexperienced, have had an article accepted by so great a magazine as theArgonaut. You scarcely know what an immense success you have won. I did not, of course, understand what your occupation in London was likely to be; but if you are to be a writer, why not come and live with me here? I have a nice little room which I can offer you, and this drawing-room will always beat your disposal, for I sit as a rule in my dining-room. You can go into town when you want to, and you will make me happy, and—and I think Maurice would like it."
As Mrs. Trevor spoke she looked full at the girl, and Florence found herself trembling and even colouring as Trevor's name was mentioned.
"Will you think over it, my dear," said Mrs. Trevor, "and let me know?"
"I will think over it and let you know. You are very kind to me. I scarcely know how to thank you enough," replied Florence.
"As to the terms," continued Mrs. Trevor, "they would be very moderate. My cottage is my own, and I have few expenses. I could take you in and make you comfortable for fifteen shillings a week."
"Oh!" said Florence. She thought of that money which was getting daily less. She looked into the lovely garden and her heart swelled within her. Her first impulse was to throw her arms round Mrs. Trevor's neck: to say it would be peace, comfort, and happiness to live with her. She would save money, and her worst anxieties would be removed. But she restrained herself. There was a heavy weight pressing against her heart, and even the widow's kindness scarcely touched her.
"I will let you know. You are more than kind," she said.
A moment afterwards she had said good-bye to Mrs. Trevor, and Maurice and she were hurrying down the hill to meet the omnibus which was to convey the girl back to Prince's Mansions.
"My mother has told you what we both wish?" he said."To be honest with you, I feel that we owe you something. I am usurping your place; I can never get over that fact."
"I wish you wouldn't think of it, for it is not the truth," said Florence. "I have told you already that even if you did not exist I should never inherit a farthing of my aunt's money, and what is more," she added, the crimson dyeing her cheeks, "I wouldn't take it if she offered it to me."
"You are a strange girl," he said. He bade her good-bye as she entered the omnibus, and then turned to walk up Hampstead Hill once again.
The next day at twelve o'clock Florence Aylmer, neatly dressed, and looking bright and purposeful, and no longer overpowered by any sense of remorse, appeared at Mr. Anderson's office. She was received with the politeness which is ever accorded to the successful. The very clerks in the outer office seemed to know that she was not to be confounded with the ordinary young person who appears daily and hourly offering unsaleable wares. Florence's wares were saleable—more than saleable. She was ushered into a room to wait for a moment, and then very soon Franks appeared on the scene.
"How do you do, Miss Aylmer?" he said, coming up in his quick way, and shaking hands with her. "I am very pleased to see you. Will you come with me now, as I should like to introduce you to Mr. Anderson?"
They left the waiting-room together, went up some broad stairs, and entered a very spacious apartment on the first floor. Here an elderly man, of tall presence, with grey hair and a hooked nose, was waiting to receivethem. He stood up when Florence appeared, bowed to her, and then held out his hand.
"Will you seat yourself, Miss Aylmer?" he said.
Florence did so. Mr. Anderson stood on the hearth and looked her all over. He had a keen, hawk-like glance, and his scrutiny was very penetrating. Florence found herself colouring under his gaze. She had been full ofsangfroidand almost indifference when she entered the office, but now once again that terrible, overpowering sense of guilt was visiting her.
Mr. Anderson was a Scotchman to the backbone, and a man of very few words.
"I read your story," he said; "it is sharp and to the point. You have a nice style and an original way of putting things. I accepted your story for theArgonaut; it may not appear for some months, but it will certainly be published before the end of the year. We had better now arrange terms. What do you think your manuscript worth?"
"Nothing at all," was Florence's unguarded answer.
This was so unexpected that both Franks and the editor smiled.
"You are a very young writer indeed," said Mr. Anderson. "You will soon learn to appraise your wares at their true value. As this is your first effort I will pay you two guineas a thousand words. There are, I think, from five to six thousand words in the manuscript. You will receive a cheque therefore, say, for twelve guineas on the day of publication."
Florence gave a short gasp.
"It really is not worth it," she said again.
Franks felt inclined to say: "Don't make such a fool of yourself," but he restrained himself.
Mr. Anderson now drew his own chair forward and looked at Florence.
"I should be glad," he said, "to receive further contributions. You have doubtless many ideas, and you have at present the great and inestimable charm of novelty. You write in a fresh way. We are always looking for work of the sort you have given us. I should be sorry if you took your stories to anyone else. Would it be possible to make an arrangement for us to receive all your contributions, say, for twelve months?"
"I assure you," here interrupted Franks, "that this is so unusual an offer that you would be very silly indeed, Miss Aylmer, to reject it."
Florence gazed from one to the other in growing alarm.
"What I mean is this," said Anderson, noticing her perturbation and pitying her supposed innocence. "When your story appears it will attract the attention of the critics. It will receive, beyond doubt, some very favourable comments, and other editors, who equally with myself are looking out for what is fresh and novel, will write to you and ask you to work for them. I do not wish in any way to injure your future prospects; but I think you would do better for yourself, and eventually increase the value of your contributions, by giving us your work during the first year. When can we find room for this first story of Miss Aylmer's, Franks?"
Franks thought for a moment.
"There is no reason why it should not appear in November,"he said. "We could dispense with illustrations—at least one illustration will be quite sufficient."
"Very well; it shall appear then. You will soon receive proofs, Miss Aylmer; and can you let me have another small story of about the same length in a month from now? If your first story is liked we can find room for another in December. You will think over my proposal. I do not want you to hurry nor to appear to coerce you in any way, but we shall be proud to be the publishers who introduced you to, I hope, a very large audience."
Mr. Anderson here got up, and Florence, seeing that the interview was at an end, bowed and went away. Franks accompanied her downstairs.
"You will, of course, accept Mr. Anderson's offer?" he said.
"Of course I shall," replied Florence; "why should I not? But you are both under a mistake with regard to me. I do not suppose any other editors will want my contributions; but if you wish for them you can certainly have them."
She returned home, avoided Edith Franks, and stayed for the remainder of that day in her own attic.
"Soon my pecuniary difficulties will be at an end," she said to herself. "I have not the slightest doubt that I can get some more stories into theArgonautthis year. I shall soon get over my remorse; my conscience will soon cease to prick me. If I receive twelve guineas for each story I shall earn a considerable sum. I can then live easily. I do not mind how poorly I live if only I am assured of a certainty."
She walked across the room and looked out; the expressionon her face had changed: it had grown hard and defiant. She took up her pen, drew a sheet of note-paper before her, and began to write:—