The Sharstons and Sir John Wallis were enjoying themselves very much at Aylmer's Court. Mrs. Aylmer exerted herself to be specially agreeable. She could, when she liked, put aside her affected manner: she could open out funds of unexpected knowledge: she at least knew her own country well: she took her guests to all sorts of places of local interest: she had the best of the neighbours to dine in the evenings: she had good music and pleasant recitations and round games for the young folks, and dancing on more than one occasion in the great hall. The time passed on wings, and the three guests thoroughly enjoyed themselves.
Both Trevor and Bertha were greatly responsible for this happy state of things. Bertha, having quickly discovered that Kitty would not betray her secret, resumed that manner which had always made her popular. Bertha, in reality one of the most selfish women who ever lived—who had wrecked more lives than one in the course of her unscrupulous career—could be to all appearance the most absolutely unselfish. In great things she was selfish to the point of cruelty; in little things she completely forgot herself. So day after day, by tact, by apparent kindness, by much cleverness, she led the conversation into the brightest channels. She suggested,without seeming to suggest, this and that way of passing the time. She was always ready to play anybody's accompaniment or any amount of dance music: to lead the games: to promote the sports. Kitty could not help owning that she was charming. Now and then, it is true, she sighed to herself and wished that she could forget that dark spot in Bertha's past.
Sir John Wallis looked often at the strange girl with a feeling of surprise struggling with a new-born respect. After all, was he to bring up this girl's past to her? She had conquered, no doubt. She had turned over a new leaf. Of course, he and Kitty and his old friend, Colonel Sharston, would never breathe a word to injure her. And Bertha, who was quick to read approval in the eyes of those she wished to please, felt her heart grow light within her, and thought little of danger.
Trevor, too, was more or less off his guard. He knew what Mrs. Aylmer expected of him, but he resolved to shut away the knowledge. He liked Kitty most heartily for herself. She was a charming companion: she was one of the most amiable and one of the sweetest girls he had ever met; but the sore feeling in his heart of hearts with regard to Florence never deserted him, and it was her image which rose before his eyes when he looked at Kitty, and it was about Florence he liked best to speak. Kitty added to all her other charms by being delighted to talk on this congenial theme. She and Trevor often went away for long walks together, and during those walks they talked of Florence, and Trevor gradually but surely began to give some of his confidences to his young companion and to tell her how bitterly he felt the positionin which Mrs. Aylmer had placed her own niece.
"I cannot take her place," he said; "you would not if you were placed in the same position?"
"If I were you I would not," said Kitty, in her gentle voice; but then she added, with a sigh: "I do not think even you know Mrs. Aylmer. Florence used to tell me all about her long ago. She is a very strange woman. Although she is so kind to us, I am afraid she is terribly unforgiving; I do not think she will ever forgive poor Flo."
Trevor was silent for a moment, then he said slowly: "This mystery of the past, am I never to know about it?"
Kitty looked at him, and her gentle grey eyes flashed. "You are never to know about it from me," she said.
He bowed, and immediately turned the conversation.
A fortnight had nearly gone by, and the guests now felt themselves thoroughly at home at Aylmer's Court, when late one afternoon the telegraph-boy was seen coming down the avenue. He met Trevor and asked him immediately if Miss Keys were at home. Trevor replied that he did not know where Miss Keys was. It turned out that she had been away for several hours. Trevor consented to take charge of the telegram. As no answer was possible, the boy departed on his way.
Bertha had gone to see an old lady for Mrs. Aylmer, and did not come home until it was time to dress for dinner. It was quite late, for they dined at a fashionable hour. The telegram was lying on the hall table. She saw that it was addressed to herself, started, for she did not often receive telegrams, and tore it open. Its contentscertainly were the reverse of reassuring. If Florence appeared on the scene now, what incalculable mischief she might effect! How could she, Bertha, stop the headstrong girl? She glanced at the clock and stamped her foot with impatience. The little telegraph-office in the nearest village had been closed for the last hour and a half. It would be impossible, except by going by train to the nearest town, to send off a telegram that night.
Bertha went up to her room, feeling intensely uncomfortable. In spite of all her efforts, she could scarcely maintain conversation during the evening which followed.
In the course of that evening Trevor asked her if she had received her telegram.
"It came two or three hours ago," he said; "the messenger wanted to wait for an answer, but I knew there was no use in that, as you would not be home until late. I hope you have had no bad news."
"Irritating news," she replied, in a whisper; "pray don't speak of it to the others. I don't want it mentioned that I have had a telegram."
He glanced at her, and slightly raised his brows. She saw that he was disturbed, and that a sort of suspicion was stealing over him. She came nearer, and by way of looking over the illustrated paper which he was glancing through, said, in a very low voice: "It was from Florence Aylmer. She has got herself into a fresh scrape, I am afraid."
He threw back his head with an impatient movement.
"What do you mean?"
"Nothing, but if you wish to do her a good turn youwill not mention the fact that I have received this telegram."
There was nothing more to be said, and Trevor walked across the room to the piano. He and Kitty both had good voices, and they sang some duets together.
During the night which followed Bertha slept but little. Again and again she took up Florence's telegram and looked at it. She would be at Hamslade, the nearest station to Aylmer's Court, between nine and ten o'clock. Bertha resolved, come what would, to meet her at the station.
"Whatever happens, she must not come here," thought Bertha; "but how am I to get to the station, so early too, just when Mrs. Aylmer wants me for a hundred things? Stay, though: I have an idea."
Bertha got up early next morning to act upon the idea that had occurred to her on the previous evening. She ran downstairs and had a private interview with the cook. It was Mrs. Aylmer's custom, no matter what guests were present, to breakfast in her room, and immediately after breakfast Bertha, as a rule, waited on her to receive her orders for the day. These orders were then conveyed to the cook and to the rest of the servants.
Breakfast was never over at Aylmer's Court until long past nine o'clock, and if Bertha wished to keep Florence from putting in a most undesired appearance, she must be at Hamslade Station at half-past nine. She had a chat with the cook and then wrote a brief note to Mrs. Aylmer. It ran as follows:—
"I am going in the dogcart to Hamslade. Have just ascertained that the pheasants we intended to have for dinner to-day are not forthcoming. Will wire for some to town, and also for peaches. I will leave a line with Kitty Sharston to take the head of the table at breakfast."
"She will be awfully cross about it all," thought Bertha, "and, of course, it is a lie, for there is plenty of game in the larder, and we have an abundant supply ofpeaches and apricots, but any port in a storm, and cook will not betray me."
The dogcart was round at the door sharp at nine o'clock, and Bertha, having sent up a twisted bit of paper to Kitty's bed-room, asking her to pour out coffee, started on her way. She reached the station a little before the train came in, and sent the necessary telegrams to the shops in London with which they constantly dealt.
A large party was expected to dine at Aylmer's Court that night, which was Bertha's excuse for ordering the fruit and game. The train was rather late, which added to her impatience. She paced up and down the platform, and when at last Florence's anxious, perturbed face appeared, Bertha was by no means in the best of humours.
"What mad craze is this?" she cried. "You know you cannot possibly come to Aylmer's Court. I came here to prevent it. Now, what is it you want with me?"
"I must speak to you, and at once, Bertha."
"Come into the waiting-room for a moment. You must return by the next train, Florence; you really must. You don't know how terribly annoyed I am, and what risks I run in coming here. The house is full of company, and there is to be a dinner-party to-night. Mrs. Aylmer won't forgive me in a hurry."
While Bertha was talking Florence remained quite silent.
"We must find out the next train to town," continued Bertha.
"I am not going back until you do what I want," said Florence. "I dare not. If you do not choose to haveme at Aylmer's Court, I will stay here; but you must do what I want."
"What is that?"
"I want you to write an essay for me immediately."
"Oh, my dear, what utter folly! Really, when I think of the way in which I have helped you, and the splendid productions which are being palmed off to the world as yours, you might treat me with a little more consideration. My head is addled with all I have to do, and now you come down to ask me to write an essay."
"Listen, Bertha, listen," said poor Florence. She then told her story in as few words as possible.
"I made such a fool of myself. I was very nearly betrayed, but fortunately Mr. Franks and Mr. Anderson took it as a practical joke. I have promised that they shall have an admirable essay by to-morrow evening. You must write it; you must let me have it to take back with me."
"What is the subject?" said Bertha, who was now listening attentively.
"The modern woman and her new crazes. You know you have all that sort of thing at your finger-tips," said Florence, glancing at her companion.
"Oh, yes, I could write about the silly creatures if I had time; but how can I find time to-day? It is not even a story. I have to think the whole subject out and start my argument and—it cannot be done, Florence—that's all."
"But it can, it must be done," replied Florence. "Bertha, I am desperate; all my future depends on this. I have gone wrong again, and you are the cause, and nowI will not lose all: I must at least have my little share of this world's goods as my recompense. Oh, I am a miserable girl! You are the evil genius of my life."
"Don't talk such folly," said Bertha; "do let me think."
They were now both seated in the waiting-room, and Bertha covered her face for a moment with her hands. Florence looked round, she felt hemmed in, and now that she was face to face with Bertha she found that she regarded her with loathing.
Presently Bertha raised her head and glanced at her.
"You must have it to-night?"
"Yes."
"Well, the best thing I can possibly do is to go straight home. I will leave you here; you must on no account let anyone see you—that is all-important. I will try to get to the station this evening and let you have it. I don't know that I can write anything worth reading in the time."
"But at least you will give style and epigram and pure English," said poor Florence, who was sore after the bitter words with which her own production had been received.
"Yes, I shall at least write like a woman of education," said Bertha. "Well, stay here now, and I will, by hook or by crook, come here in time for you to take the last train to town. I suppose it would not do if I posted it?"
"No, it would not; I dare not go back without it. You think I am altogether in your power; but I am desperate, and if you do not let me have that essay to-night I will come to the Court, whoever dines there, and seeyou. What does it matter to me? Aunt Susan cannot hate me more than she does."
"You shall have the essay, of course," said Bertha, who turned pale when Florence uttered this threat. "She means it too," thought Miss Keys, as she drove rapidly home. "Oh, what shall I do? Such a world of things to be done, and all those guests expected, and if the fruit or game does not arrive in time (and cook and I dare not now show the stores which we have put away in hiding) what is to be done?"
Bertha entered the house and saw Mrs. Aylmer, who was in just as bad a humour as Bertha had expected to find her in. Everything, she declared, was going wrong. She wished she had not asked those guests to dinner. If there was no game nor proper fruit for dessert, she, Mrs. Aylmer, would be disgraced for life.
Bertha roused herself to be soothing and diplomatic. She brought all her fund of talent and ingenuity to the fore, and presently had arranged things so well that she was able to rush to her desk in Mrs. Aylmer's boudoir and begin to write Florence's essay.
Bertha was a quick writer and had a great deal of genius, as we know, but she was harassed and worried to-day, and for a time the paper which she had promised to give to Florence did not go smoothly. She was in reality much interested in the struggles of the woman who was at that time called "modern." She pitied her; she felt that she belonged to the class. Had she time she would have written with much power, upholding her, commending her, encouraging her to proceed, assuring her that the difficulties which now surrounded her lotwould disappear, and that by-and-by those who watched her struggles would sympathise with her more and more. But she had not time to do this. It was much easier to be sarcastic, bitter, crushing. This was her real forte. She determined to write quickly and in her bitterest vein. She was in her element. The paper she was writing would make the modern woman sit up and would make the domestic woman rejoice. It was dead against æstheticism: against all reform with regard to women's education. It was cruel in its pretended lack of knowledge of women's modern needs.
Bertha felt that she hated her at that moment. She would give vent to her hatred. She would turn the disagreeable, pugnacious, upstart New Woman into ridicule.
If Bertha possessed one weapon which she used with greater power than another it was that of sarcasm. She could be sarcastic to the point of cruelty. Soon her cheeks glowed and her eyes shone: she was in her element. She was writing quickly, for bare life, and she was writing well. The paper would make the New Woman sit up, and would make the old woman rejoice. It would be read eagerly. It was not a kind paper. It was the sort of paper to do harm, not good; but its cleverness was undoubted. She finished it just before the luncheon gong rang, and felt that she had done admirable work.
"After all," she said to herself, "why should I work through the channel of that little imp, Florence Aylmer? Why should she have the fame and glory, and I stay here as a poor companion? Why should I not throw up the thing and start myself as a writer and get praise and money and all the good things which fame and successbring in their train? Why should I not do it?"
Bertha thought. She held the paper in her hand. It was but to betray Florence and go herself to the editor of theArgonautand explain everything, and the deed was done. But no: she could not do it. She knew better—she was trying for a bigger prize.
"Either I inherit Mrs. Aylmer's wealth or I marry Maurice Trevor and inherit it as his wife," she thought. "I think I see my way. He is depending on me in spite of himself. He will never marry Kitty Sharston. He neither wants her nor she him. He is to be my husband, or, if not, he goes under completely and I secure Mrs. Aylmer's wealth. No amount of writing would give me what I shall get in that way. I can keep Florence quiet with this, and she is welcome, heartily welcome, to the cheap applause."
It was Bertha's intention to go back to the railway station in the dogcart in order to secure the pheasants and fruit for the coming party; but just as she was preparing to jump on the cart Mrs. Aylmer herself appeared.
"My dear Bertha," she said, "where are you going?"
Bertha explained.
"That is quite unnecessary. You can send Thomas. I want you to come for a drive with me. I wish to see Mrs. Paton of Paton Manor. I have not yet returned her call. There are also other calls which I want to make. The young people are away enjoying themselves, and our elderly friends have gone shooting. You must come with me, as I cannot possibly go alone."
As Mrs. Aylmer spoke the jingle of bells was heard, and Bertha, raising her eyes, saw the pretty ponies which drew Mrs. Aylmer's own special little carriage trotting down the avenue. Bertha had always to drive Mrs. Aylmer in this little carriage, and, much as she as a rule enjoyed doing so, it was by no means her wish to do so now. She looked at Mrs. Aylmer.
"The cook really does want the things from town."
"That does not matter, my dear. Thomas is drivingthe dogcart and can call for the things. He had better go straight away at once."
Mrs. Aylmer gave directions to the man, who whipped up the horse and disappeared down the avenue.
Bertha felt a momentary sense of despair; then her quick wit came to the rescue.
"I quite forgot to give Thomas a message," she said; "he must have it. Excuse me one minute, Mrs. Aylmer."
Before Mrs. Aylmer could prevent her she was running after the dogcart as fast as she could go. She shouted to Thomas, who drew up.
"Yes, miss," he said; "the mare is a bit fresh; what is it?"
"You must take this parcel; there is a young lady waiting for it at the station: see that she gets it. Get one of the porters to put it into her hand. There is no message; just have the parcel delivered to her."
"But what is the name of the young lady, miss?"
Bertha had not thought of that. She looked back again at the house. Mrs. Aylmer was getting impatient, and was waving her hand to her to come back.
"Her name is Miss Florence Aylmer; see that the parcel is put into her hands: there is no message."
Thomas, not greatly caring whom the message was for, promised to see it safely delivered, and the mare, not brooking any further delay, raced down the avenue.
"I do trust things will go right," thought Bertha to herself; "it is extremely dangerous. Florence certainly was mad when she came to this part of the country."
There was no help for it, however. Bertha was learning once more that the way of the transgressors is hard.She had to stifle all her feelings of anxiety, help Mrs. Aylmer into her pretty pony carriage, and take the reins.
Meanwhile Thomas and the spirited mare went as fast as possible to the railway station. The mare did not like the trains, which were coming and going at this moment in considerable numbers, Hamslade being a large junction. She did not like to stand still with so many huge and terrible monsters rushing by. Thomas did not dare to leave her, so he called to a porter who stood near.
"I have come for some things from town; they must have arrived by the last train. Are there any packages for Mrs. Aylmer of Aylmer's Court?"
"I'll go and see," said the man.
He presently returned with the pheasants and fruit, which had arrived in due course. Thomas saw them deposited in the dogcart, and was just turning the mare's head towards home when he suddenly remembered the parcel. He drew up the animal again almost on its haunches. It reared in a state of fright. What was to be done? The porter had already disappeared into the station, and Thomas knew better than to return home without obeying Bertha's orders. Miss Keys was a power in the establishment. She could dismiss or she could engage just as she pleased. Thomas would not oppose her for worlds. He looked around him, and just at that moment saw Maurice Trevor crossing a field in a leisurely fashion. Maurice drew up when he saw Thomas.
"Hallo," he said, "what are you doing here, Thomas?"
"I came for some parcels from town, sir. I wonder, sir, if you would either hold the mare for a minute or do a commission for Miss Keys?"
"I will do the commission; what is it?"
"It is not much, sir; it is just to deliver this parcel to a young lady who is waiting for it at the station."
"A young lady who is waiting for it at the station?" said Trevor.
"Yes, sir: Miss Florence Aylmer. There is no answer, sir."
Trevor received the little brown-paper parcel, very neatly made up and addressed to Miss Florence Aylmer, in unbounded astonishment.
Thomas, relieved and feeling that his duty was well done, gave the mare her head and was soon out of sight. Trevor entered the station. He went to the ladies' waiting-room, and there saw Florence Aylmer. She came to the door the moment he appeared.
"What are you doing here?" was his exclamation.
"You may well wonder. But why are you here?"
"I came to give you this." As she spoke he placed the little parcel in Florence's hand.
"Thank you," she said. She had brought a small bag with her; she opened it and dropped the parcel into it. Her face looked worried; it had turned red when she saw Trevor: it was now very white.
He stood leaning up against the door of the waiting-room and contemplated her in astonishment.
"What have you been doing here all day?" he repeated.
"That is my affair," she answered.
"Forgive me; I do not want to be unduly curious, but surely when you were so near you might have comeon to the Court. We should all have been glad to see you, and Mrs. Aylmer is your aunt."
"You must please remember, Mr. Trevor," said Florence, speaking in as stately a tone as she could assume, "that Mrs. Aylmer does not act as my aunt—she does not wish to have anything to do with me."
"But you have been here for hours in this dingy waiting-room."
"No; I took a walk when I thought no one was looking."
"That means you do not wish it to be known that you are here?"
"I do not; and I earnestly beg of you not to mention it. Did Miss Keys really give you the parcel to bring to me?"
"She really did nothing of the kind. She gave it to one of the grooms, who could not leave a spirited mare. He saw me and asked me to deliver it into your hands."
"Thank you," said Florence. She stood silent for a moment; then she looked at the clock.
"I must go," she said; "there is a train back to town immediately, and I want to cross to the other platform."
"I will see you into the train if you will allow me."
Florence could not refuse; but she heartily wished Trevor anywhere else in the world.
"You will be sure not to mention that you saw me here," she said.
"I may speak of it, I suppose, to Miss Keys?"
"I wish you would not."
"I won't promise, Miss Aylmer. I am very uncomfortable regarding the position you are in. It is hatefulto me to feel that you should come here like a thief in the night, and stay for hours at the railway station. What mystery is there between you and Miss Keys?"
Florence was silent.
"You admit that there is a mystery?"
"I admit that there is a secret between us, which I am not going to tell you."
He reddened slightly; then he looked at her. She was holding her head well back; her figure was very upright; there was a proud indignation about her. His heart ached as he watched her.
"I think of you often," he said; "your strange and inexplicable story is a great weight and trouble on my mind."
"I wish you would not think of me: I wish you would forget me."
Florence looked full at him; her angry dark eyes were full of misery.
"Suppose that is impossible?" he said, dropping his voice, and there was something in his tone which made her heart give a sudden bound of absolute gladness. But what right had she to be glad? She hated herself for the sensation.
Trevor came closer to her side.
"I have very nearly made up my mind," he said; "when it is quite made up I shall come to see you in town. This is your train." He opened the door of a first-class carriage.
"I am going third," said Florence.
Without comment he walked down a few steps of theplatform with her. An empty third-class carriage was found; she seated herself in it.
"Good-bye," he said. He took off his hat and watched the train out of the station; then he returned slowly—very slowly—to Aylmer's Court. He could not quite account for his own sensations. He had meant to go to meet Kitty and her father, who were both going to walk back by the river, but he did not care to see either of them just now.
He was puzzled and very angry with Bertha Keys, more than angry with Mrs. Aylmer, and he had a sore sense of unrest and misery with regard to Florence.
"What can she want with Miss Keys? What can be the secret between them?" he said to himself over and over again. He was far from suspecting the truth.
Bertha returned from her drive in apparently excellent spirits. She entered the hall, to find Trevor standing there alone.
"Why are you back so early?" she said.
He did not speak at all for a moment; then he came closer to her. Before he could utter a word she sprang to a centre table, and took up a copy of theArgonaut.
"You are interested in Miss Aylmer. Have you read her story—the first story she has ever published?" she asked.
"No," he replied; "is it there?"
"It is. The reviews are praising it. She will do very well as a writer."
Kitty Sharston and her father appeared at that moment.
"Look, Miss Sharston," exclaimed Trevor; "you knowMiss Aylmer. This is her story: have you read it?"
"I have not," said Kitty; "how interesting! I did not know that the number of theArgonauthad come. Florence told me she was writing in it." She took up the number and turned the pages.
"Oh!" she exclaimed once or twice.
Trevor stood near.
Bertha went and warmed herself by the fire.
"Oh!" said Kitty, "this is good." Then she began to laugh. "Only I wish she were not quite so bitter," she exclaimed, a moment later. "It is wonderfully clever. Read it; do read it, Mr. Trevor."
Trevor was all-impatient to do so. He took the magazine when Kitty handed it to him, and began to read rapidly. Soon he was absorbed in the tale. As he proceeded with it an angry flush deepened on his cheeks.
"What is the matter?" said Bertha, who, for reasons of her own, was watching this little scene with interest.
"I don't like the tone of this," he said. "Of course it is clever."
"It is very clever; and what does the tone matter?" said Bertha. "You are one of those painfully priggish people, Mr. Trevor, who will never get on in the world. Have you not yet discovered that being extra good does not pay?"
"I am not extra good; but being good pays in the long run," he answered. He darted an indignant glance at Bertha Keys and left the hall. Scarcely knowing why he did so, he strode into Mrs. Aylmer's boudoir. Bertha's desk, covered with papers, attracted his attention. There was a book lying near which she was reading.He picked it up, and was just turning away when a scrap of thin paper scribbled over in Bertha's well-known hand arrested his eye. Before he meant to do so he found that he had read a sentence on this paper. There was a sharpness and subtlety in the wording of the sentence which puzzled him for a moment, until he was suddenly startled by the resemblance to the style of the story in theArgonautwhich he had just read. He scarcely connected the two yet, but his heart sank lower in his breast. He thought for a moment; then, opening his pocket-book, he placed the torn scrap of paper in it and went away to his room. It was nearly time to dress for dinner.
Mrs. Aylmer always expected her adopted son to help her to receive her guests, but Trevor made no attempt to get into his evening suit. His valet knocked at the door, but he dismissed him.
"I don't want your services to-night, Johnson," said the young man.
Johnson withdrew.
"It is all horrible," thought Trevor; "all this wealth and luxury for me and all the roughness for her, poor girl! But why should I think so much about her as I do? Why do I hate that story, clever as it is? The story is not like her. It hurts me to think that she could have written it. It is possible that I"—he started: his heart beat more quickly than was its wont—"is it possible," he repeated softly, under his breath, "that I am beginning to like her too much? Surely not too much! Suppose that is the way out of the difficulty?" He laughed aloud, and there was relief in the sound.
Kitty Sharston, in the softest of white dresses, was playing Trevor's accompaniments at the grand piano. He had a beautiful voice—a very rich tenor. Kitty herself had a sweet and high soprano. The two now sang together. The music proceeded, broken now and then by snatches of conversation. No one was specially listening to the young pair, although some eyes were watching them.
In a distant part of the room Sir John Wallis and Mrs. Aylmer were having a tête-à-tête.
"I like him," said Sir John. "You are lucky in having secured so worthy an heir for your property."
"You don't like him better than I like your adopted child, Miss Sharston," was Mrs. Aylmer's low answer.
"Ay, she is a sweet girl—no one like her in the world," said Sir John. "I almost grudge her to her father, much as I love him. We were comrades on the battle-field, you know. Perhaps he has told you that story."
"I have heard it, but not from him," said Mrs. Aylmer, with a smile. "Your friendship for each other is quite of the David and Jonathan order. And so, my good friend"—she laid her white hand for an instant onSir John's arm—"you are going to leave your property to your favourite Kitty?"
Sir John frowned; then he said shortly: "I see no reason for denying the fact. Kitty Sharston, when it pleases God to remove me, will inherit my wealth."
"She is a sweet, very sweet girl," replied Mrs. Aylmer. She glanced down the room; there was significance in her eyes.
Sir John followed her look. Kitty and Trevor had now stopped all music. Trevor was talking in a low tone to the girl; Kitty's head was slightly bent and she was pulling a white chrysanthemum to pieces.
"I wonder what he is saying to her?" thought Mrs. Aylmer. Then all of a sudden she made up her mind. "I should like it," she said aloud; "I should like it much."
Sir John started, and a slight accession of colour came into his ruddy cheeks.
"What do you mean?" he said.
"Have you never thought of it? It is right for the young to marry. This would be a match after my own heart. Would it please you?"
"It would, if it were God's will," said Sir John emphatically. He looked again at the pair by the piano, and then across the long room to Colonel Sharston. Colonel Sharston was absorbed in a game of chess with Bertha Keys. He was noticing nothing but the intricacies of the game.
"All the same," added Sir John, "her father and I are in no hurry to see Kitty settled in life. She is most precious to us both; we should scarcely know ourselves without her."
"Oh, come now, I call that selfish," said Mrs. Aylmer; "a pretty girl must find her true mate, and there is nothing so happy as happy married life."
"Granted, granted," said Sir John.
"You and I, Sir John, are not so young as we used to be. It would be nice for us to see those we love united: to feel that whatever storms life may bring they will bear them together. But say nothing to Colonel Sharston on the subject yet. I am glad to feel that whenmy son, as I always called Maurice, proposes foryour daughter, as you doubtless think Kitty, there will be no objection on your part."
"None whatever, except that I shall be sorry to lose her. I have a great admiration for Trevor; he is a man quite after my own heart."
Soon afterwards Sir John Wallis moved away.
Mrs. Aylmer, having sown the seed she desired to sow, was satisfied. From time to time the old man watched the pretty, bright-eyed girl. During the rest of the evening Trevor scarcely left her side; they had much to talk over, much in common. Mrs. Aylmer was in the highest spirits.
"This is exactly what I want," she said to herself; "but I can see, for some extraordinary reason, that notwithstanding his attentions, Maurice has not fallen in love with that remarkably sweet girl. Whom has he given his heart to? If I thought for a single moment that Bertha was playing that game, I should dismiss her with a month's salary. But no: she would not dare. She is a clever woman and invaluable to me, and there is no saying what clever women will not think of; butI do not believe even Bertha would go as far as that, and I warned her too. For some reason Maurice is not often with Bertha just now. Yes, I must bring things to an issue. The Sharstons and Sir John leave on Monday. Maurice must make up his mind to propose to Miss Sharston almost immediately afterwards. He can follow them to Southsea, where they have taken a house for the winter."
Mrs. Aylmer was quite cheerful as she thought over this.
"We will have a grand wedding in the spring," she said to herself, "and Kitty shall come and live with me. I need not keep Bertha Keys when Kitty is always in the house. Kitty would suit me much better. I seldom saw a girl I liked more thoroughly."
Meanwhile Kitty Sharston and her companion, little guessing the thoughts which were passing through the minds of their elders, were busily talking over the one subject which now occupied all Trevor's thoughts. Like bees round a flower, these thoughts drew nearer and nearer every moment to the subject of Florence Aylmer. Whenever Trevor was silent or distrait Kitty would speak of Florence, and his attention was instantly arrested. He began to talk in cheerful and animated tones. Incidents of Florence's life at school always made him laugh. He was glad to hear of her small triumphs, which Kitty related to him with muchnaïveté.
This evening, after a longer pause than usual, during which Kitty tore her chrysanthemum to pieces, and Mrs. Aylmer was quite certain that Maurice was saying something very tender and suitable, Trevor broke the silence by saying abruptly: "You have doubtless all sorts ofprizes and competitions in your school life. Was Miss Aylmer ever remarkable for the excellence of her essays and themes?"
"Ever remarkable for the excellence of her essays or themes?" said Kitty.
Before she could reply, Bertha, whose game was over, and who had just given an emphatic checkmate to her enemy, strolled across the room. She stood near the piano and could overhear the two; Kitty's eyes met hers, and Kitty's cheeks turned pale.
"I don't think she was specially remarkable for the excellence of her writing," said Kitty then, in a low voice.
"You surprise me. Such talent as she now possesses must have been more or less inherent in her even as a child."
"It does not always follow," said Bertha, suddenly joining in the conversation. "I presume you are both talking of your favourite heroine, Florence Aylmer. But you remember an occasion, however, Miss Sharston, when Florence Aylmerdidreceive much applause for a carefully-worded essay."
"I do," said Kitty; "how dare you speak of it?" She rose to her feet in ungovernable excitement, her eyes blazed, her cheeks were full of colour.
Another instant and she might have blurted out all the truth, and ruined Bertha for ever, had not that young lady laid her hand on her arm.
"Hush!" she whispered; "be careful what you say. Remember you injure her. Mr. Trevor, I think I see Mrs. Aylmer beckoning to you."
Mrs. Aylmer was doing nothing of the kind; but Trevorwas obliged to go to her. Kitty soon subsided on her seat.
"Why did you say that?" she said.
"Can you not guess? I wanted to save the situation. Why should poor Florence be suspected of having written badly when she was young? It is much more natural for you, who are her true friend, to uphold her and to allow people to think that the great talent which she now possesses was always in evidence. I spoke no less than the truth. That essay of hers was much commented on and loudly applauded."
"Oh, you know you have told a lie—the worst sort of lie," said Kitty. "Oh, what am I to say? Sometimes I hate you."
"I know you hate me, but you have no cause to. I am quite on your side."
"I don't understand you; but I will not talk to you any further."
Kitty rose, crossed the room, and sat down by her father.
"She is a very nice girl; far too good to be thrown away on him," thought Bertha to herself. "I admire her as I admire few people. She was always steadfast of purpose and pure of soul, and will be a charming wife for a man who loves her, some day; but she is not for Maurice Trevor. He does not carethatfor her! Yes, I know the old folks are plotting and planning; but all their plots and plans will come to nothing. There will be a finefracassoon, and I must see, whatever happens, thatmybread is well buttered."
On the morning of the day when the guests were to depart Mrs. Aylmer, having spent a long and almost restless night, sent for Trevor to her room. He entered unwillingly. He had begun to dislike his tête-à-tête with Mrs. Aylmer very much.
"Now, my dear boy, just sit down and let us have a cosy chat," said the old lady.
Trevor stood near the open window.
"The day is so mild," he said, "that it is almost summer. Who would suppose that we were close to December?"
"I have not sent for you, Maurice, to talk of the weather. I have something much more important to say."
"And what is that?" he asked.
"You remember our last conversation in this room?"
He knitted his brows.
"I remember it," he answered.
"I want to carry it on now; we have come to the second chapter."
"What do you mean by that?"
"Our last conversation was introductory. Now the story opens. You have behaved very well, quite as well as Icould have expected, during the time that Sharstons and Sir John Wallis have stayed here."
"I am glad you are pleased with my behaviour; but in reality I did not behave well: I mean according to your lights. I am just as much a rebel as ever."
"Maurice, my dear boy, try not to talk nonsense; try to look a little ahead. How old are you?"
"I shall be six-and-twenty early in the year."
"Quite a boy," said Mrs. Aylmer, in a slightly contemptuous voice. "In ten years you will be six-and-thirty, in twenty six-and-forty. In twenty years from now you will much rejoice over what—what may not be quite to your taste at the present moment, though why it should not be—Maurice, it is impossible, absolutely impossible, that you should not love that sweet and beautiful girl."
"Which girl do you mean?" said Trevor.
"Don't prevaricate; you know perfectly well to whom I allude."
"Miss Sharston? She is far too good, far too sweet to have her name bandied between us. I decline to discuss her."
"You must discuss her. You can do so with all possible respect. Kitty Sharston is to be your wife, Maurice."
"She will never be my wife," he replied. His tone was so firm, he stood so upright as he spoke, his eyes were fixed so sternly, that just for a moment Mrs. Aylmer recognised that she had met her match.
"You refuse to do what I wish?" she said then slowly, "I who have done all for you?"
"I refuse to do this. This is the final straw of all. No wealth is worth having at the price you offer. I will only marry the woman I love. I respect, I admire, I reverence Miss Sharston; but I do not love her, nor does she love me. It is sacrilege to talk of a marriage between us. If I offered she would refuse; it is not to be thought of; besides—"
"Why do you stop? Go on. It is just like your gratitude. How true are the poet's words: 'Sharper than serpent's tooth!' But what is your intention in the future?"
"Justice," he replied. "I cannot bear this. It troubles me more than I can say. If you will not reinstate the girl who ought to be your heiress in her right position, I at least will do what I can for her. I will offer her all I have."
"You! you!" Mrs. Aylmer now indeed turned pale. She rose from her seat and came a step nearer the young man.
"You are mad; you must be mad," she said. "What does this mean?"
"It means that I intend to propose for Florence Aylmer. Whether she will accept me or not God only knows, but I love her."
"You told me a short time ago that you were not her lover."
"I had not then looked into my own heart. Now I find that I care for no one else. Her image fills my mind day and night; I am unhappy about her—too unhappy to endure this state of things any longer."
"Do you think she will take you, a penniless man? Doyou think you are a good match for her or for any girl?"
"That has nothing to do with it. If she loves me she will accept all that I can give her, and I can work for my living."
"I will not listen to another word of this. You have pained me inexpressibly."
"You gave me time to decide, and I have decided. If you will forgive Miss Aylmer whatever she happened to do to displease you, if you will make her joint heiress with me in your estates, then we will both serve you and love you most faithfully and most truly; but if you will not give her back her true position I at least will offer her all that a man can offer—his heart, his worship, and all the talent he possesses. I can work for my wife, and before God I shall be fifty times happier than in my present position."
Mrs. Aylmer pointed to the door.
"I will not speak to you any more," she said. "This is disastrous, disgraceful! Go! Leave my presence!"
Thomas Franks was much relieved when, on the morning after her return to town, Florence sent him the paper which Bertha had written. Florence herself took the precaution to carefully copy it out. As she did so, she could scarcely read the words; there were burning spots on her cheeks, and her head ached terribly.
Having completed her task, she sent it off by post, and Tom Franks, in good time, received Bertha's work. He read it over at first with some slight trepidation, then with smiling eyes and a heart beating high with satisfaction. He took it immediately to his chief.
"Ah! this is all right," he said; "read it: you will be pleased. It quite fulfills the early promise."
Mr. Anderson did glance rapidly over Bertha's paper.
"Miss Florence Aylmer has done good work," he said, when he had finished reading her pungent and caustic words; "and yet—" A thoughtful expression crossed his face, he was silent for a moment, then he looked up at the young man, who was standing near.
"I doubt if in any way such a paper will help our new production," he said. "It is difficult for me to believe that any girl could write in what I will call so agnostic a spirit. There is a bitterness, a want of belief, an absenceof all feeling in this production. I admit its cleverness; but I should be sorry to know much of the woman who has written it."
"I admire talent in any form," said Tom Franks; "it will be inserted, of course. People who want smart things will like it, I am sure. Believe me, you are mistaken; it will do good, not harm."
"It may do good from a financial point of view: doubtless it will," said Mr. Anderson; "but I wish the girl who has those great abilities would turn them to a higher form of expression. She might do great things then, and move the world in a right way."
"I grant you that the whole thing is pessimistic," said Franks; "but its cleverness redeems it. It will call attention, and the next story by Miss Aylmer which appears in theArgonautwill be more appreciated than her last."
"See that that story appears in the next number," said his chief to Franks, and the young man left the room.
Florence received in due time a proof of her paper for correction. There was little alteration, however, needed in Bertha's masterly essay; but Florence was now obliged to read it carefully, and her heart stood still once or twice as she read the expressions which she herself was supposed to have given birth to. She had just finished correcting the proofs when Edith Franks came into the room.
"I have just seen Tom," she said; "he is delighted with your essay. Is that it? Have you corrected it? May I look through it?"
"I would much rather you did not read it, Edith."
"What nonsense! It is to be published, and I shall see it then."
"Well, read it, if you must, when it is in the paper; only I would rather you didn't read it at all."
"What do you mean?"
"I don't like it."
"Why do you write what you don't like?" said Edith, fixing her sharp eyes on her new friend's face.
"One does all sorts of things perhaps without reason; one writes as one is impelled," said Florence.
Edith went up to her, and after a brief argument possessed herself of the long slip of proof she was holding in her hand.
"I am going to read it now," she said; "I always said you were neurotic: even your talents tend in that direction. Oh, good gracious! what an extraordinary opening sentence! You are a queer girl!"
Edith read on to the end. She then handed the paper back to Florence.
"What do you think of it?" said Florence, noticing that she was silent.
"I hate it."
"I thought you would. Oh. Edith, I am glad!"
"What do you mean by that?"
"Because I so cordially hate it too."
"I would not publish it if I were in your place," said Edith; "it may do harm. It is against the woman who is struggling so bravely. It turns her noblest feelings into ridicule. Why do you write such things, Florence?"
"One cannot help one's self; you know that," replied Florence.
"Rubbish! One can always help doing wrong. You have been queer all through. I cannot pretend to understand you. But there, as Tom admires it so much, I suppose it must go into the paper. Will you put it into an envelope, and I will post it?"
Florence did so. She directed the envelope to the editor, and Edith took it out with her.
As she was leaving the room, she turned to Florence and said: "Try and make your next thing more healthy. I hope to goodness very few people will read this; it is bad from first to last."
She ran downstairs. Just as she was about to drop the little packet into the pillar-box, she glanced at her watch.
"I shall have time to go and see Tom. I don't like this thing," she said to herself. "Miss Aylmer ought not to write what will do direct harm. The person who has written this paper might well not believe in any God. I don't like it. It ought not to be published. I will speak to Tom about it. Some of the worst passages might at least be altered or expunged."
Edith hailed a hansom, was taken Citywards, and found herself in her brother's own private room shortly before he was finishing for the day.
"Here is the work of your precious protégée," she said, flinging the manuscript on Tom's desk. He took it up.
"Has she corrected it? That's right; I want to send it to the printer. By the way, Edith, have you read it?"
"I grieve to say I have."
Tom Franks looked at her in a puzzled way.
"Why do you speak in that tone?"
"Because it is so horrible and so false, Tom. Why do you publish it?"
"You agree with Mr. Anderson; he doesn't like it either."
"Don't send it to the printers like that. Poor Florence must be a little mad. Cut out some of the passages. Give it to me, and I'll show you. This one, for instance, and this."
Tom Franks took the paper from her.
"It goes in entire, or it does not go in at all," he said; "its cleverness will carry the day. I must speak to Miss Aylmer. She must not give vent to her true feelings; in future, she must put a check on them."
"She must have a terrible mind," said Edith. "If I had known it, I don't think I could have made her my friend."
"Oh, don't give her up now," said Tom; "poor girl, she is to be pitied."
"Of course she is; great talent like hers often means a tendency to insanity. I must watch her; she is a curious and interesting study."
"She is monstrously clever," said Tom Franks; "I admire her very much."
Edith, feeling that she had done no good, left the office.
In due time the first number of the new weekly paper appeared, and Florence's article was on the leading page. It created, as Tom Franks knew it would, a good deal of criticism. It met with a shower of abuse from one party, and warm notices, full of congratulation, from another. It certainly increased the sale of the paper and made people look eagerly forward to the next work of the rising star.
Florence, who would not glance at the paper once it had appeared, and who did her utmost to forget Bertha's work, tried to believe that she was happy. She had now really as much money as she needed to spend, and was able to send her mother cheques.
Mrs. Aylmer was in the seventh heaven of bliss. As to Sukey, she was perfectly sick of hearing of Miss Florence's talents and Miss Florence's success. Mrs. Aylmer the less thought it high time to write a congratulatory letter to her daughter.