Kitabı oku: «The Time of Roses», sayfa 14
"I am not selling myself. How dare you?" said Florence. Her whole manner was new; she had ceased to depreciate herself.
Edith left her, and Florence went into her bed-room and carefully made her toilet. Her eyes were soft as well as bright. The dress she wore suited her well; there was a flush of becoming colour in her cheeks. She joined Edith just as Franks drove up in his brougham. He ran upstairs, and was pleased to see that the two girls were ready.
"Come, that is nice," he said, gazing at Florence with an increased beating of his heart. He said to himself: "She is absolutely handsome. She would suit me admirably as a wife. I may propose to her to-night if I have the chance."
He gave his arm to Florence with a certain chivalry which was by no means habitual to him, and the two girls and Franks went downstairs.
"There is to be a bit of a crush," he said, looking at Florence; "and, by the way, did I tell you who was to be present? You saw him to-day: Maurice Trevor. He is a great friend of Mrs. Simpson's, and he and his mother have been invited."
Florence's hand was still on Franks's arm when he spoke, and as he uttered the words "Maurice Trevor" she gave that arm an involuntary grip. He felt the grip, and a queer sensation went through him. He could not look into her face, but his suspicions were aroused. Why had she been so startled when Trevor's name was mentioned? He would watch the pair to-night. Trevor was not going to take Florence from him if he, Franks, wished for her: of that he was resolved.
CHAPTER XXXVIII.
AT THE RECEPTION
The guests were all interesting, and the room sufficiently large not to be overcrowded. Franks seemed to watch Florence, guarding her against too much intrusion, but at the same time he himself kept her amused. He told her who the people were. As he did so, he watched her face. She still wore that becoming colour, and her eyes were still bright. She had lost that heavy apathetic air which had angered Franks more than once. He noticed, however, that she watched the door, and as fresh arrivals were announced her eyes brightened for an instant, and then grew perceptibly dull. He knew she was watching for Trevor, and he cursed Trevor in his heart.
"She is in love with him. What fools women are!" muttered Franks to himself. "If she married a man like that – a rich man with all that money could give – her literary career would be ended. I have had the pleasure of introducing her to the public; she is my treasure-trove, my one bright particular star. She shall not shine for anyone else. That great gift of hers shall be improved, shall be strengthened, shall be multiplied ten-thousandfold. I will not give her up. I love her just because she is clever: because she is a genius. If she had not that divine fire, she would be as nothing and worse than nothing to me. As it is, the world shall talk of her yet."
Presently Trevor and his mother arrived, and it seemed to Florence that some kind of wave of sympathy immediately caused his eyes to light upon her in her distant corner. He said a few words to his hostess, watched his mother as she greeted a chance acquaintance, and elbowed his way to her side.
"This is good luck," he said; "I did not expect to see you here to-night." He sat down by her, and Franks was forced to seek entertainment elsewhere.
Florence expected that after the way she had treated Trevor early that day he would be cold and distant; but this was not the case. He seemed to have read her agitation for what it was worth. Something in her eyes must have given him a hint of the truth. He certainly was not angry now. He was sympathetic, and the girl thought, with a great wave of comfort: "He does not like me because I am supposed to be clever. He likes me for quite another reason: just for myself. But why did not he tell me so before – before I fell a second time? It is all hopeless now, of course; and yet is it hopeless? Perhaps Maurice Trevor is the kind of man who would forgive. I wonder!"
She looked up at him as the thought came to her, and his eyes met hers.
"What are you thinking about?" he said. They had been talking a lot of commonplaces; now his voice dropped; if he could, he would have taken her hand. They were as much alone in that crowd as though they had been the only people in the room.
"What are you thinking of?" he repeated.
"Of you," said Florence.
"Perhaps you are sorry for some of the things you said this morning?"
"I am sorry," she answered gravely, "that I was obliged to say them."
"But why were you obliged?"
"I have a secret; it was because of that secret I was obliged."
"You will tell it to me, won't you?"
"I cannot."
Trevor turned aside. He did not speak at all for a moment.
"I must understand you somehow," he said then; "you are surrounded by mystery, you puzzle me, you pique my curiosity. I am not curious about small things as a rule, but this is not a small thing, and I have a great curiosity as to the state of your heart, as to the state of your – "
"My morals," said Florence slowly; "of my moral nature – you are not sure of me, are you?"
"I am sure that, bad or good – and I know you are not bad – you are the only woman that I care for. May I come and see you to-morrow?"
"Don't talk any more now; you upset me," said Florence.
"May I come and see you to-morrow?"
"Yes."
"Remember, if I come, I shall expect you to tell me everything?"
"Yes."
"You will?"
"I am not certain; I can let you know when you do come."
"Thank you; you have lifted a great weight from my heart."
A moment later Franks appeared with a very learned lady, a Miss Melchister, who asked to be introduced to Florence.
"I have a crow to pluck with you, Miss Aylmer," she said.
"What is that?" asked Florence.
"How dare you give yourself and your sisters away? Do you know that you were very cruel when you wrote that extremely clever paper in the General Review?"
"I don't see it," replied Florence. Her answers were lame. Miss Melchister prepared herself for the fray.
"We will discuss the point," she said. "Now, why did you say – "
Trevor lingered near for a minute. He observed that Florence's cheeks had turned pale, and he thought that for such a clever girl she spoke in a rather ignorant way.
"How queer she is!" he said to himself; "but never mind, she will tell me all to-morrow. I shall win her; it will be my delight to guard her, to help her, and if necessary to save her. She is under someone's thumb; but I will find out whose."
His thoughts travelled to Bertha Keys. He remembered that strange time when he met Florence at the railway station at Hamslade. Why had she spent the day there? Why had Bertha sent her a parcel? He felt disturbed, and he wandered into another room. This was the library of the house. Some papers were lying about. Amongst others was the first number of the General Review. With a start Trevor took it up. He would look through Florence's article. That clever paper had been largely criticised already; but, strange to say, he had not read it. He sank into a chair and read it slowly over. As he did so, his heart beat at first loud, then with heavy throbs. A look of pain, perplexity, and weariness came into his eyes. One sentence in particular he read not only once, but twice, three times. It was a strange sentence; it contained in it the germ of a very poisonous thought. In these few words was the possibility of a faith being undermined, and a hope being destroyed. It puzzled him. He had the queer feeling that he had read it before. He repeated it to himself until he knew it by heart. Then he put the paper down, and soon afterwards he went to his mother, and told her he was going home.
"I will send a brougham for you; I am not very well," he said.
She looked into his face, and was distressed at the expression she saw in his eyes.
"All right, Maurice dear; I shall be ready in an hour. I just want to meet a certain old friend, and to talk to that pretty girl Miss Aylmer. I will find out why she does not come to see us."
"Don't worry her. I would rather you didn't," said Trevor.
His mother looked at him again, and her heart sank.
"Is it possible he has proposed for her, and she will not accept him?" thought the mother; and then she drew her proud little head up, and a feeling of indignation filled her heart. If Florence was going to treat her boy, the very light of her eyes, cruelly, she certainly need expect no mercy from his mother.
CHAPTER XXXIX.
AN ADMIRABLE ARRANGEMENT
Trevor took his departure, and the gay throng at Mrs. Simpson's laughed and joked and made merry.
Florence had now worked herself into apparent high spirits. She ceased to care whether she talked rubbish or not. She was no longer silent. Many people asked to be introduced to the rising star, and many people congratulated her. Instead of being modest, and a little stupid and retiring, she now answered back badinage with flippant words of her own. Her cleverness was such an established fact that her utter nonsense was received as wit, and she soon had throngs of men and women round her laughing at her words and privately taking note of them.
Franks all the while stood as a sort of bodyguard. He listened, and his cool judgment never wavered for a moment.
"I must give her a hint," he said to himself; "she requires training. That sort of sparkling, effervescent nonsense is in itself in as bad taste and is as poor as the essay she sent me when she played her great practical joke. She is playing a practical joke now on these people, leading them to believe that her chaff is wit."
He came up to her gravely in a pause in the conversation, and asked her if she would like to go in to supper. She laid her hand on his arm, and they threaded their way through the throng. They did not approach the supper-room, however. Franks led her into a small alcove just beside the greenhouse.
"Ah," he said, "I have been watching this place; couples have been in it the whole evening: couples making love, couples making arrangements for future work, couples of all sorts, and now this couple, you and I, find ourselves here. We are as alone as if we were on the top of Mont Blanc."
"What a funny simile!" said Florence. She laughed a little uneasily. "I thought," she continued, "you were going to take me in to supper."
"I will presently; I want first to ask you a question, and to say something to you."
"I am all attention," replied Florence.
"There is no use in beating about the bush," said Franks, after a pause. "The thing admits of either 'yes' or 'no.' Miss Aylmer, I take a great interest in you."
"Oh, don't, please," said Florence.
"But I do; I believe I can help you. I believe that you and I together can have a most brilliant career. Shall we work in harness? Shall we become husband and wife? Don't start; don't say no at first. Think it over: it would be an admirable arrangement."
"So it would," said Florence. Her answer came out quietly. She looked full into Franks's cold grey eyes, and burst into a mirthless laugh.
"Why do you look at me like that? Are you in earnest when you admit that it would be an admirable arrangement?"
"I am absolutely in earnest. Nothing could be more – more – "
"Let me speak. You are not in earnest. It is your good pleasure to take a great many things in life in a joking spirit. Now, for instance, when you sent me that bald, disgraceful, girlish essay, you played a practical joke which a less patient man would never have forgiven. To-night, when you talked that rubbish to that crowd of really clever men and women, you played another practical joke, equally unseemly."
"I am not a society person, Mr. Franks. I cannot talk well in company. You told me to talk, and I did the best I could."
"Your chatter was nearly brainless; the people who listened to you to-night won't put up with that sort of thing much longer. It is impossible with a mind of your order that you should really wish to talk nonsense. But I am not going to scold you. I want to know if you will marry me."
"If I will be your wife?" said Florence. "Why do you wish it?"
"I think it would be a suitable match."
"But do you love me?"
Franks paused when Florence asked him that direct question.
"I admire you very much," he said.
"That has nothing to do with it. Admiration is not enough to marry on. Do you love me?"
"I believe I shall love you."
"May I ask you a very plain question?"
"What is that?"
"If I were not very clever, if I did not write those smart stories and those clever papers, would you, just for myself, just for my face, and my heart, and my nature, would you desire me as your wife?"
"That is scarcely a fair thing to ask, for I should never have met you had you not been just what you are."
"Well, do you love me?" said Florence again.
"You are a very strange girl. I think on the whole I do love you. I fully expect to love you very much when you are my wife."
"Did you ever love anybody else better than you love me?"
"I didn't expect, Miss Aylmer, to be subjected to this sort of cross-questioning. There was once a girl – " A new note came into Franks's voice, and for the first time those eyes of his were softened.
"She died," he said softly; "you can never be jealous of her: she is in her grave. Had she lived we should have been married long ago. Don't let us talk of her to-night. You and I can have a brilliant career. Will you say 'yes'?"
"I cannot answer you to-night. You must give me time."
"Thank you; that is all I require. I am glad you will think it over. We can be married soon, for I have a good income. I want you to clearly understand that as my wife you continue writing. I want to lead you forth as one of the most brilliant women before the world. I can train you: will you submit to my training?"
Florence shivered slightly.
"I will let you know to-morrow," she said.
"Come, let us go and have supper," said Franks. He jumped up abruptly, offered Florence his arm, and took her into the supper-room.
The party broke up soon afterwards. Mrs. Trevor had no opportunity of seeing Florence, or, rather, she would not give herself an opportunity.
Mrs. Simpson shook hands with the young literary débutante with marked favour. Florence looked prettier than anyone had ever seen her look before. Franks took his sister and Florence home to their flat. As he parted from the latter, he ventured to give her hand a slight squeeze.
"I will call to-morrow morning," he said. "Can I see you before I go to my work?"
"Yes," said Florence; "I shall be at home at" – she paused a moment – "nine o'clock," she said somewhat eagerly.
"What! a rendezvous so early?" exclaimed Edith, with a laugh. Franks laughed also.
"Quite so, Edith," he said; "we are all busy people, and have no time to waste. This is merely a business arrangement between Miss Aylmer and myself."
"All right, Tom; I am sure I'm not going to interfere," said Edith. "Good-night. Come in, Miss Aylmer; it is very cold standing out in the street."
The girls entered the house, and went up to their respective rooms. Fires were burning brightly in each and the doors stood open.
"You will come into my room and have cocoa, will you not?" said Edith to Florence.
"No, thank you; not to-night."
Edith looked full at her.
"Has Tom proposed to you?" she said suddenly.
"I don't know why you should ask me that question."
"Your face answers me. You will be a fool if you accept him. He is not the man to make any woman happy. Don't tell him that I said it; but he is cold through and through. Only one woman, poor Lucy Leigh, who died before she was twenty, ever touched his heart. What heart he had is in her grave: you will never kindle it into life. Take him if you wish for success, but do not say that I never warned you."
Edith went into her room and slammed the door somewhat noisily behind her. Florence entered hers. The late post had brought a letter – one letter. She started when she saw the postmark, and a premonition of fresh trouble came over her. Then, standing by the fire, she slowly opened the envelope. The contents were as follows: —
"Aylmer's Court, Dec. 3rd.
"My Dear Florence —
"I would come to see you, but am kept here by Mrs. Aylmer's indisposition. She has been seriously unwell and in the doctor's hands since Maurice Trevor left her in the disgraceful fashion he has done. He has nearly broken her heart, but I hope to have the solace of mending it. I wish to say now that from words dropped to Mrs. Aylmer it is highly probable that he has gone to town for the purpose of proposing to you. Accept him, of course, if you wish. It is likely, very likely, that you will return his affection, for he is an attractive man, and has a warm heart, and also a good one. I have nothing whatever to do with that, but clearly understand the moment the news reaches me that you are betrothed to Maurice Trevor, on that very day I shall tell Mrs. Aylmer the whole truth with regard to the stories which are running in the Argonaut and the paper which has already appeared in the General Review. I do not mind whether I go under or not; but you shall be seen in your true colours before ever you become the wife of Maurice Trevor.
"Yours faithfully – and faithful I shall be in that particular – Bertha Keys."
CHAPTER XL.
IS IT "YES" OR "NO"?
Florence sat up long with that letter lying in her lap. The fire burned low and finally went out. Still she sat by the cold hearth, and once or twice she touched the letter, and once or twice she read it.
"It burns into me; it is written in my heart in letters of fire," she said to herself finally, and then she rose slowly and stretched her arms and crossed the room and looked out at the sky. From the top of her lofty flat she could see just a little sky above the London roofs. It was a clear cold night with a touch of frost, and the stars were all brilliant. Florence gazed up at them.
"There is a lofty and pure and grand world somewhere," she said to herself; "but it is not for me. Good-bye, Maurice; I could have loved you well. With you I would have been good, very good: with you I might have climbed up: the stars would not have been quite out of reach. Good-bye, Maurice; it is not to be."
She took Bertha's letter, put it on the cold hearth, set fire to it, and saw it consumed to ashes. Then she undressed and went to bed. Whatever her dreams were she rose in good time in the morning. She had a considerable amount to do. She was to see Franks at nine o'clock. She was to see Trevor later on.
She had to copy a whole very brilliant story of Bertha's. She was a slow writer and there was nothing of talent in her handwriting.
"I am a very stupid girl when all is said and done," she said to herself; "I am not even in the ordinary sense of the word well-educated. I have been years studying, but somehow I think I must have a frivolous sort of brain. Perhaps I have taken after the little Mummy. The little Mummy never was clever. She is a dear little mother when all is said and done, and very comforting when one is in trouble, and if I saw her now I might break down and fling my arms round her neck and confess to her. With all her silliness she would comfort me and she would never reproach me; but I must not tell. There is no softness in my future. Thank goodness, at least I am young; I may have a great career; I will be satisfied to be famous. It will be terribly, terribly, difficult to be famous through the whim of another woman; but I suppose Bertha will not forsake me."
She dressed, prepared her breakfast as usual, and had just washed up afterwards and put her little sitting-room in order when Franks's knock was heard at her door. He entered in that brisk, business-like, utterly cool way which always characterised him. He looked immaculate and fresh. He was always extremely particular about his appearance. His collars were invariably as white as the driven snow, and his clothes well cut. He dressed himself between the style of a country gentleman and a man of business. He never wore frock-coats, for instance. He was a small man, but well made. He held himself upright as a soldier. His black hair was brushed back from his lofty white brow. He had straight black eye-brows and a neat little black moustache and straight features. His skin was of an olive tint. Those well-cut, classical features gave to his face a certain cold sameness of outline. It was almost impossible to surprise him or to cause emotion to visit his countenance. He looked now as composed as though he had merely come to give Florence a fresh order for work.
"Ah," he said, "there you are. One minute past nine; sorry I am late; accept my apologies."
Florence pushed forward a chair. She could scarcely bring herself to speak. Even her lips were white. Franks did not sit; he came a step nearer.
"I have exactly ten minutes," he said; "this is a purely business arrangement. Is it to be 'yes' or 'no?'"
"If you will faithfully assure me that – " began Florence, and then she stopped and wetted her lips. Her mouth was so dry she could scarcely proceed.
Franks gave an impatient start. He took out his watch and glanced at it.
"Yes," he said, "I am awfully sorry; if it is no, it won't be necessary to keep me now."
"I must speak; you cannot hurry me."
"Oh, all right; take your own time," said Franks. His face beamed all over for a moment. He looked at the girl with a certain covetousness. After all, there was something about her which might develop into strength and even beauty. She had been pretty last night. She would assuredly be his stepping-stone to great fame. He was a very clever man himself, but he was not a genius. With Florence, with their two forces combined, might they not rise to any position?
"Yes, my dear, yes?" he said. "Sit down, Florence, sit down."
She shivered when he called her by her Christian name, but she did drop into a chair. He drew his own close to hers.
"Yes, Florence," he said, "what is it? You are about to make conditions. If they lead to 'yes' I will fulfil them."
"I only want to ask you to repeat something which you said last night."
"What is that?"
"Can you assuredly tell me that you are only marrying me just because you think that you and I together can be famous?"
"You would not like me to say that sort of thing, would you?"
"On the contrary, if I firmly know, firmly and truly from your own lips, that you do not love me, that there is no love in the matter, that it is a mere business arrangement – "
"Well, what?"
"It would be, I think, possible."
"Then that means 'yes.' I like you very much. I hope a day may come when I shall love you."
"I want it clearly to be understood," said Florence, "that I do not wish for that day. I don't love you at all, and I don't want you to love me; but if we can, as you say, work in harness, perhaps it would be best. Anyhow, I – "
"You say 'yes,' my dear girl; that is all I need. We can talk over those curious ideas of yours later on. You are engaged to me, Florence – come."
He went quickly up to her, put his arm round her waist, drew her close to him, and kissed her on the forehead.
"I am not repugnant to you, am I?" he said, as she shrank away.
"I don't know," she replied; "I am selling myself and you are buying me: I hope I shall prove a good bargain. I don't want you to imagine for a moment that I care for you; but I am selling myself, and it may be best."
"You must drop all that kind of nonsense when once you are my wife," he said. "As it is, I bear with it. We shall be married before Christmas. We will take a flat in a fashionable part and see literary people. We will start a new salon. Now good-bye; I will call again to-night. By the way, how is the story getting on?"
"I don't know that I can quite finish it all to-day, but you shall have it by the time I promised."
"Thank you, Florence. I believe you and I are acting wisely. I hope we shall be kind to each other: we have a great deal in common. You could not step up as high as I shall place you without my aid, and you are useful to me: it is an admirable arrangement. Good-bye, dear."
She shrank so far away that he did not venture to repeat his cold caress. He again looked at his watch.
"How late I shall be!" he said. "Anderson will be astonished. He will forgive me, however, when I tell him that I am engaged to my rising star. Good-bye, Florence."
"Thank God!" she muttered, when the door closed behind him. She had scarcely time, however, for reflection before it was opened again, and this time without knocking. Edith Franks, wearing her hat and coat and buttoning on her gloves, entered briskly.
"I thought I heard Tom going downstairs. So he has been?" she enquired.
"Yes, Edith, he has been."
Edith came nearer and looked at Florence's face.
"So you are to be my sister-in-law," she said.
"Don't scold me, please, Edith."
"Good gracious, no dear; I gave you my word of warning last night. Now I am all congratulations. You will make a nice little sister-in-law, and we are proud of your ability. Go on and prosper. You have chosen ambition. Some women would prefer love, but everyone to their taste. I'm off. Good-bye, Florence. I see you would much rather not be kissed. Tom has been doing that, doubtless. I will see you again this evening."
Edith went out of the room in her brisk way. She shut the door quickly.
Florence went straight to the window. She stood there for a minute or two looking out. Then she dropped into a chair and, taking a sheet of note-paper, began to write. She was writing to Bertha.
"My Dear Bertha —
"The letter I received from you last night requires no comment. You may perhaps be glad to hear that I have just engaged myself to Mr. Franks, the sub-editor of the Argonaut, and a very distinguished man. We are to be married before Christmas. It is his particular wish that I should go on writing, and it is one of the conditions that we shall both pursue our own careers independently of the other, and yet each helped by the other. You will, I am sure, fulfil your part of the bargain. I shall want another story of about five thousand words next week, as terse, and brilliant, and clever as you can make it. I shall also want an article for the General Review. Make it smart, but avoid the woman question. I have been bullied on the subject, and did not know how to answer.
"Yours truly,"Florence Aylmer."
This letter written, Florence did not even wait to read it. She put it into an envelope, directed it, and ran out with it to the nearest pillar-box. She dropped it in and returned to the house. It was not yet eleven o'clock. How tired she was! It was nearly two hours since Franks and she had ratified their contract. She was engaged now – engaged to a man who did not profess to love her, for whom she did not feel the faintest glimmering of affection. She was engaged and safe; yes, of course she was safe. No fear now of her ghastly secret being discovered! As long as Bertha lived the stories could be conveyed to her, and the stories would mean fame, and she would go on adding fame to fame and greatness to greatness until she was known, not only in England, but in America, and in the Colonies, as a new writer of great promise, and Franks would be rich. Oh, yes, he would manage her financial affairs in the future. He would not allow her to sell her talent for less than it was worth. He would instruct her how to dress, and how to speak when she was in public; he would take care that she did not give herself away as she had all but done last night. He would be her master, and doubtless she would find herself ruled by an iron rod. But no matter: she was safe. She would not think even for a moment of what she was throwing away. Such was her feeling; but never mind: she had chosen the wrong and refused the right. Great temptation had come, and she had not been able to resist it, and now the only way was to go straight on; and Franks had made that way plain. It was the broad road which led to destruction. She was pricked by many thorns, and the broad road was the reverse of pleasant, and she saw dizzily how steep the hill would grow by-and-by, and how fast the descent would be; but never mind: she at least was safe for the present.
She panted and felt herself turning slightly cold as this last thought came to her, for there was a tap at the door, and Trevor, his face white, his grey eyes anxious, an expression of earnestness and love beaming all over his features, came in.
He was in every way the opposite of Tom Franks.
Florence looked wildly at him. She must go through the dreadful half-hour which was before her. She hoped he would not stay long: that he would take his dismissal quietly. She dared not think too hard; she did her utmost to drive thought out.
"Well," said Trevor, "have I come too early?"
"Oh, no," said Florence, "it is past eleven," and she looked listlessly at the clock.
He tried to take her hand. She put it immediately behind her.
"You have come to ask me a question, have you not?" she said.
"I have. You promised me your confidence last night."
"I did not promise: I said I might give it."
"Am I to expect it?"
"What do you want to know?"
"I want to know this," said Trevor. He took out of his pocket a copy of the General Review. He opened it at the page where Florence's article appeared. He then also produced from his pocket-book a tiny slip of paper, a torn slip, on which, in Bertha Keys's handwriting, was the identical sentence which had attracted so much attention in the Review.
"Look," he said.
Florence did look. Her frightened eyes were fixed upon the scrap of paper.
"Where – where did you get that?" she said.
"It is remarkable," he said; "I thought perhaps you would explain. I have read your paper – I am not going to say whether I like it or not. Do you remember that day when I saw you and gave you a packet at Hamslade Station?"
"Quite well."
"I think you would not be likely to forget. I was naturally puzzled to find you so near Mrs. Aylmer's house and yet not there. The packet I gave you was from Miss Keys, was it not?"
"There can be no harm in admitting that fact," replied Florence, in a guarded voice.
