Kitabı oku: «The Time of Roses», sayfa 15
He looked at her and shook himself impatiently.
"I was perplexed and amazed at seeing you at the station."
"You ought to try and curb your curiosity, Mr. Trevor," said Florence. She tried to speak lightly and in a bantering tone. He was too much in earnest to take any notice of her tone.
"I was curious; I had reason to be," he replied. "I went home. Miss Keys, Miss Sharston and others were in the hall. They were talking about you, and Miss Sharston showed me one of your stories. I read it; we both read it, and with keen curiosity."
"Was it the first or the second?" said Florence.
"The first story. It was clever; it was not a bit the sort of story I thought you would have written."
Florence lowered her eyes.
"The style was remarkable and distinctive," he continued; "it was not the style of a girl so young as you are; but of course that goes for nothing. I went upstairs to Mrs. Aylmer's boudoir: I wanted to fetch a book. I don't think I was anxious to read, but I was restless. The book lay on Miss Keys's desk. On the desk also were some torn sheets of paper. I picked up one mechanically."
"You read what was not meant for you to read!" said Florence, her eyes flashing.
Trevor gave her a steady glance.
"I admit that I read a sentence – the sentence I have just shown you. I will frankly tell you that I was surprised at it; I was puzzled by the resemblance between the style of the story and the style of the sentence. I put the torn sheet of paper into my pocket-book. I don't exactly know why I did it at the time, but I felt desperate. I was taking a great interest in you. It seemed to me that if you did wrong I was doing wrong myself. It seemed to me that if by any chance your soul was smirched, or made unhappy, or blackened, or any of its loftiness and its god-like quality removed, my own soul was smirched too, my own nature lowered. But I thought no special harm of you, although I was troubled; and that night I learned for the first time that I was interested in you because I loved you, because you were the first of all women to me, and I – "
"Oh, don't," said Florence, "don't say any more." She turned away from him, flung herself on the sofa, and sobbed as if her heart would break.
Trevor stood near for a little in much bewilderment. Presently she raised her eyes. He sat down on the sofa by her.
"Why don't you tell me everything, Florence?" he said, with great tenderness in his tone.
"I cannot: it is too late. Think what you like of me! Suspect me as you will! I do not think you would voluntarily injure me. I cannot give you my confidence, for I – "
"Yes, dear, yes; don't tremble so. Poor little girl, you will be better afterwards. I won't ask you too much; only tell me, sweetest, with your own lips that you love me."
"I am not sweet, I am not dear, I am not darling. I am a bad girl, bad in every way," said Florence. "Think of me as you like. I dare not be near you: I dare not speak to you. Oh, yes, perhaps I could have loved you: I won't think of that now. I am engaged to another man."
"You engaged!" said Trevor. He sprang to his feet as if someone had shot him. He trembled a little; then he pulled himself together. "Say it again."
"I am engaged to Mr. Franks."
"But you were not engaged last night?"
"No."
"When did this take place?"
"Two hours ago; he came at nine – a minute past, I think. We became engaged; it is all settled. Good-bye; forget me."
Florence still kept her hands behind her. She rose: her miserable tear-stained face and her eyes full of agony were raised for a moment to Trevor's.
"Do go," she said; "it is all over. I have accepted the part that is not good, and you must forget me."
CHAPTER XLI.
THE LITTLE MUMMY IN LONDON
Two days later a little woman might have been seen paying a cabman at the door of No. 12, Prince's Mansions. She argued with him over the fare, but finally yielded to his terms, and then she tripped upstairs, throwing back her long widow's veil, which she always insisted on wearing. She reached the door which had been indicated to her as the one leading to Florence's room. She tapped, but there was no answer. She tried to turn the handle: the door was locked. Just as she was so engaged, a girl with a bright, keen face and resolute manner opened the next door and popped out her head.
"Pardon me," said Mrs. Aylmer the less, for of course it was she, "but can you tell me if my daughter Florence is likely to be in soon?"
"Your daughter Florence?" repeated the girl. "Are you Mrs. Aylmer – Florence's mother?"
"That is my proud position, my dear. I am the mother of that extremely gifted girl."
"She is out, but I daresay she will be in soon," said Edith Franks. "Will you come into my room and wait for her?"
"With pleasure. How very kind of you!" said Mrs. Aylmer. She tripped into the room, accepted the seat which Edith pointed out to her near the fire, and untied her bonnet strings.
"Dear, dear!" she said, as she looked around her. "Very comfortable indeed. And is this what indicates the extreme poverty of those lady girls who toil?"
"That is a remarkable sentence," said Edith. "Do you mind saying it again?"
Mrs. Aylmer looked at her and smiled.
"I won't say it again," she said, "for it does not fit the circumstance. You do not toil."
"But indeed I do; I work extremely hard – often eight or nine hours a day."
"Good gracious! How crushing! But you don't look bad."
"I have no intention of being bad, for I enjoy my work. I am studying to be a lady doctor."
"Oh, don't," said Mrs. Aylmer. She immediately drew down her veil and seated herself in such a position that the light should not fall on her face.
"I have heard of those awful medical women," she said, after a pause, "and I assure you the mere idea of them makes me ill. I hope they will never become the fashion. You expect medical knowledge in a man, but not in a woman. My dear, pray don't stare at me; you may discover that I have some secret disease which I do not know of myself. I do not wish it found out even if it exists. Please keep your eyes off me."
"I am not going to diagnose your case, if that is what you mean," replied Edith, with a smile. "I am by no means qualified: I have to pass my exams in America."
"Thank you." Mrs. Aylmer sighed again. "It is a relief to know that at present you understand but little of the subject. I hope some good man may marry you and prevent your becoming that monster – a woman doctor. But now to change the subject. I am extremely anxious for my daughter to return. I have bad news for her. Can you tell me how she is?"
"Well, I think," replied Edith.
"You know her."
"Oh, yes, rather intimately. Have you not heard our news?"
"What news?"
"She is engaged to my brother."
"What?" cried Mrs. Aylmer. She sprang to her feet; she forgot in her excitement all fear of the embryo medical woman. She dropped her cloak and rushed forward to where Edith was standing and seized both her hands.
"My girl engaged to your brother! And pray who is your brother?"
"A very rising journalist, a remarkably clever man. It is, let me tell you, Mrs. Aylmer, an excellent match for your daughter."
"Oh, that remains to be seen. I don't at all know that I countenance the engagement."
"I am afraid you cannot help it now. Florence is of age. I wonder she did not write to you."
"I may not have received her letter. The fact is I have been away from home for the last day or two. But I wish she would return, as I have come on most urgent business. Pray, miss – I do not even know your name."
"Franks," replied Edith: "Edith Franks."
"Pray, Miss Franks, do not spread the story of my daughter's engagement to your brother just for a day or two. Circumstances may alter matters, and until a girl has been really led to the altar I never consider this sort of thing final. Ah! whose step is that on the stairs? I believe it is my Flo's."
Mrs. Aylmer tripped to the door, flung it open, and stood in an expectant attitude.
The next moment Florence, accompanied by Tom Franks, appeared. Mrs. Aylmer looked at him, and in a flash said, under her breath: "The future son-in-law." Then she went up to Florence and kissed her.
"Oh, mother," said Florence, looking by no means elated at this unexpected appearance of the little Mummy on the scene, "what has brought you to town?"
"Most important business, dear. I must see you immediately in your room. I assure you nothing would induce me to spend the money I did were it not absolutely necessary that I should see you at once. This gentleman, you must tell him to go, Florence; I have not a single moment to waste over him now."
"Let me introduce Mr. Franks to you, mother. Tom, this is my mother. You know, mother, that I am engaged to Mr. Franks."
"I know nothing of the kind," replied Mrs. Aylmer angrily.
Florence smiled.
"But I wrote to you, mother; I told you everything."
"Perhaps so, dear, but I didn't receive the letter. I cannot acknowledge the engagement just now. I am very much agitated. Mr. Franks, you will, I hope, excuse me. Of course I know the feelings of all young men under such circumstances, and I wish to do nothing rude or in any way impolite, but just now I must see my daughter alone."
"You had better go, Tom," said Florence. She took the key of her room out of her pocket, opened the door, and ushered her mother in.
"Now, mother," she said. "Oh, dear, the fire is out." She walked to the hearth, stooped down, and began to light the fire afresh. Mrs. Aylmer sat near the window.
"Now, mother," said Florence, just looking round her, "what have you come about?"
"I thought you would give me a welcome," said Mrs. Aylmer the less; "you used to be an affectionate girl."
"Oh, used!" said Florence. "But people change as they grow older. Sometimes I think I have not any heart."
"But you have engaged yourself to that man. I presume you love him."
"No, I don't love him at all."
"Flo, it is impious to hear your talk; it is just on a par with those awfully clever papers of yours – those stories and those articles. You have made a terrible sensation at Dawlish. You are becoming notorious, my dear. It is awful for a little widow like me to have a notorious daughter. You must stop it, Flo; you really must!"
"Come, mother, I will get you a cup of tea. What does it matter what the Dawlish people say? You will spend the night, of course?"
"You and I, my dear, will spend some of the night in the train."
"Now, mother, what does this mean?"
"Listen, Flo. Yes, you may get me a cup of tea and a new-laid egg, if you have such a thing."
"But I have not."
"Then a rasher of bacon done to a turn and a little bit of toast. I can toast the bread myself. You are not at all badly off in this nice room, but – "
"Go on, mother, go on; do explain why you have come."
"It is your aunt, dear; she is very ill indeed. She is not expected to recover."
"What, Aunt Susan?"
"Yes, she has had a serious illness and has taken a turn for the worse. It is double pneumonia, whatever that means. Anyhow, it is frightfully fatal, and the doctors have no hope. I went to see her."
"When you heard she was ill, mother?"
"No, I didn't hear she was ill. I felt so desperate about you and the extraordinary sentiments you were casting wholesale upon the world that I could stand it no longer, and when you sent me that last cheque I thought I would make a final appeal to Susan. So I put on my very best black silk – "
Florence now with a quick sigh resumed her duties as tea-maker. Mrs. Aylmer was fairly launched on her narrative.
"I put on my very best black silk – the one that nice, charming, clever Miss Keys sent to me – and I told Sukey that I should be away for a couple of days and that she was to expect me when she heard from me, and she was not to forward letters. I didn't expect any from you, and your letters lately have been the reverse of comforting, and I started off and got to Aylmer's Court yesterday evening. I took a cab and drove straight there, and when the man opened the door I said: 'I am Mrs. Aylmer; I have come to see my sister-in-law,' and of course there was nothing for it but to let me in, although the flunkey said: 'I don't think she is quite as bad as that, ma'am,' and I looked at him and said: 'What do you mean?' and I had scarcely uttered the words before Miss Keys, so elegantly dressed and looking such a perfect lady, tripped downstairs and said, in a kind tone: 'So you have come! I am glad you have come.' She did, Florence; those were her very words. She said: 'I am glad you have come.' It was so refreshing to hear her, and she took me into one of the spacious reception-rooms – oh! my dear child, a room which ought to be yours by-and-by – and she made me sit down, and then she told me. There have been dreadful things happening, my dear Florence, and that wicked young man whom I took such a fancy to has turned out to be a wolf in sheep's clothing. He broke my poor, dear, warm-hearted sister-in-law's heart."
"Now, mother, why do you talk rubbish?" said Florence. "You know Aunt Susan is not warm-hearted."
"She has not been understood," said Mrs. Aylmer, beginning to sob. She took a handkerchief from her pocket and wiped away her tears. "The circumstances of her life have proved how warm her heart is," she continued. "She adopted that young man and he played her false."
"He did not," said Florence.
"He did, Flo; he did. She wanted him to marry – to make a most suitable match – and he refused her. Bertha told me all about it. He was in love with some stupid, poor, plain girl, goodness knows where. Bertha said there was no doubt of it, and he went away and broke with my poor sister, although she loved him so much and was better than twenty mothers to him. She had just offered him a thousand a year as pocket-money. You will scarcely believe it, Flo, but the ungrateful wretch gave it all up for the sake of that girl. I never heard of such a man, and to think that I should have angled – yes, I did, dear – that you should know him!"
"Here is your tea, mother. Can you not stop talking for a little? You will wear yourself out."
"What a queer, stern, cold voice you have, Florence! You are not half as interested as you used to be."
"Do drink your tea, mother."
Mrs. Aylmer was not proof against the fragrant cup. She broke a piece of toast and put it into her mouth, she sipped her tea, but nothing could stop her narrative.
"Soon after he left, that wicked young man," she resumed, "poor Susan fell ill. She got worse and worse, and what apparently was only a slight attack soon assumed serious dimensions, and there is little hope of her life, and Bertha tells me that she has altered her will or is about to alter it. I cannot quite make out whether it is done or whether it is about to be done; but anyhow, Flo, you and I go back to Aylmer's Court to-night. By hook or by crook we will show ourselves, my love, and I will take the responsibility of leading you into your aunt's room, and you shall go on your knees and beg her forgiveness. That is what I have come about, Florence. It is not too late. Poor Bertha, I can see, is quite on our side. It is not too late, my love; we will catch the very next train."
"You don't know what you are saying, mother. It is absolutely impossible for me to go."
"My dearest Flo, why?"
"Let me tell you something. You blame Mr. Trevor."
"I always blame ungrateful people," said Mrs. Aylmer, putting on a most virtuous air.
"And yet," said Florence – "yes, I will speak. Do you know who the worthless girl was for whom he gave up great wealth and a high position?"
"How can I tell? I don't want to hear her name."
"I was that girl, mother."
"What do you mean?"
"And Bertha knew it," continued Florence; "she knew it well. Oh, I dare not say much against Bertha, but I won't have Mr. Trevor abused. He found out, mother, that, worthless as I am, he loved me. Oh, mother, pity me! pity me!"
Poor Florence suddenly fell on her knees. She bowed her head on the table and burst into tears. It was not often she cried. Mrs. Aylmer did not remember seeing Florence weep since that dreadful morning when they had both fled from Cherry Court in disgrace.
"Flo," she said, "Flo!"
"Pity me, Mummy; pity me!" said Florence.
The next instant the little Mummy's arms were round her.
"Oh, I am so glad you have a heart!" said the little Mummy, "and of course I don't blame him for loving you, but I do not understand it. Bertha could not have known. She said she was quite a low sort of person. Oh, Flo, my love, this is splendid! You will marry him, of course! I don't believe Susan has altered her will. You will just get the riches in the very best possible way as his wife. I always said he was a most charming young man. It was Bertha who turned me against him. She is awfully clever, Flo, and if I really thought – "
"I dare not say anything against Bertha, mother. But I cannot go to Aylmer's Court; you must not ask it. I am engaged now to Tom Franks, and I won't break my engagement off. I am a very, very unhappy girl."
CHAPTER XLII.
BERTHA KEYS DEFEATED
There is little doubt that Mrs. Aylmer was very ill. Step by step an attack, which was apparently at first of little moment, became serious and then dangerous. The cold became pneumonia, the pneumonia became double pneumonia, and now there was a hard fight for life. Nurses were summoned, doctors were requisitioned, everything that wealth could do was employed for the relief and the recovery of the sick woman. But there are times when Death laughs at wealth, with all its contrivances and all its hopes: when Death takes very little heed of what friends say or what doctors do. Death has his own duty to perform, and Mrs. Aylmer's time had come. Notwithstanding the most recent remedies for the fell disease, notwithstanding the care of the best nurses London could supply and the skill of the cleverest doctors, Death entered that sick-chamber and stood by that woman's pillow and whispered to her that her hour had come.
Mrs. Aylmer, propped up in her bed so that she might breathe better, her face ghastly with the terrible exertion, called Bertha to her side. She could scarcely speak, but she managed to convey her meaning to the girl.
"I am very bad; I know I shall not recover."
"You have to make your will over again," said Bertha, who was as cool as cool could be in this emergency. Not one of the nurses could be more collected or calm than Bertha. She herself would have made a splendid nurse, for she had tact and sympathy, and the sort of voice which never grated on the ear. The doctors were almost in love with her: they thought they had never seen so capable a girl, so grave, so quiet, so suitably dressed, so invaluable in all emergencies.
Mrs. Aylmer could scarcely bear Bertha out of her sight, and the doctors said to themselves: "Small wonder!"
On the afternoon of the day when Mrs. Aylmer the less went to see Florence in London, Mrs. Aylmer the great went down another step in the dark valley. The doctor said that she might live for two or three days more, but that he did not think it likely. The disease was spreading, and soon it would be impossible for her to breathe. She was frightened. She had not spent a specially good life. She had given, it is true, large sums in charity, but she had not really ever helped the poor, and had not brought a smile to the lip or a tear of thankfulness to the eye. She had lived a hard life; she had thought far more of herself than of her neighbour, and now that she was about to die it seemed to her that she was not ready. For the first time, all the importance of money faded from her mind. No matter how rich she was and how great, she would have to leave the world with a naked, unclothed soul. She could not take any of her great possessions with her, nor could she offer to her Maker a single thing which would satisfy Him, when He made up the balance of her account. She was frightened about herself.
"Bertha," she said to her young companion, "come here, Bertha."
Bertha bent over her.
"Is it true that I am not going to get better?"
"You are very ill," said Bertha; "you ought to make your will."
"But I have made it: what do you mean?"
"I thought," said Bertha, "that" – she paused, then she said gravely: "you have not altered it since Maurice Trevor went away. I thought that you had made up your mind that he and Florence Aylmer were not to inherit your property."
"Of course I have," said the sick woman, a frightened, anxious look coming into her eyes. "Not that it much matters," she added, after a pause. "Florence is as good as another, and if Maurice really cares for her – "
"Oh, impossible," said Bertha; "you know you do not wish all your estates, your lands, your money, to pass into the hands of that wicked, deceitful girl."
"I have heard," said Mrs. Aylmer, still speaking in that gasping voice, "that Florence is doing great things for herself in London."
"What do you mean?"
"She is considered clever. She is writing very brilliantly. After all, there is such a thing as literary fame, and if at the eleventh hour she achieves it, why, she as well as another may inherit my wealth, and I am too tired, Bertha, too tired to worry now."
"You know she must not have your property!" said Bertha. "I will send for Mr. Wiltshire: you said you would alter the will: it is only to add a codicil to the last one, and the deed is done."
"As you please," said Mrs. Aylmer.
Bertha hurried away.
Mr. Wiltshire, Mrs. Aylmer's lawyer, lived in the nearest town, five miles distant. Bertha wrote him a letter and sent a man on horseback to his house. The lawyer arrived about nine o'clock that evening.
"You must see her at once: she may not live till the morning," said Bertha. There was a pink spot on each of Bertha's cheeks, and her eyes were very bright.
"I made my client's will six months ago. All her affairs are in perfect order. What does this mean?" said Mr. Wiltshire.
"Mrs. Aylmer and I have had a long conversation lately, and I know Mrs. Aylmer wants to alter her will," said Bertha. "Mr. Trevor has offended her seriously: he has repudiated all her kindness and left the house."
"Dear, dear!" said the lawyer; "how sad!"
"How ungrateful, you mean!" said Bertha.
"That is quite true. How different from your conduct, my dear young lady."
As the lawyer spoke, he looked full into Bertha's excited face.
"Ah!" said Miss Keys, with a sigh, "if I had that wealth I should know what to do with it; for instance, you, Mr. Wiltshire, should not suffer."
Now, Mr. Wiltshire was not immaculate. He had often admired Bertha: he had thought her an extremely taking girl. It had even occurred to him that, under certain conditions, she might be a very suitable wife for him. He was a widower of ten years' standing.
"I will see my client now that I have come," he said, rising. "Perhaps you had better prepare her for my visit."
"She knows you are coming. I will take you up at once."
"But it may be too great a shock."
"Not at all; she is past all that sort of thing. Come this way."
Bertha and the lawyer entered the heavily-curtained, softly carpeted room. Their footsteps made no sound as they crossed the floor. The nurses withdrew and they approached the bedside. Bertha had ink and paper ready to hand. The lawyer held out his hand to Mrs. Aylmer.
"My dear, dear friend," he said, in that solemn voice which he thought befitting a death-bed and which he only used on these special occasions, "this is a most trying moment; but if I can do anything to relieve your mind, and to help you to a just disposition of the great wealth with which Providence has endowed you, it may ease your last moments."
"Yes," said Mrs. Aylmer, in a choking voice, "they are my last moments; but I think all my affairs are settled."
Bertha looked at him and withdrew. Her eyes seemed to say: "Take my part, and you will not repent it."
Mr. Wiltshire immediately took his cue.
"I am given to understand that Mr. Trevor has offended you," he said; "is that so?"
"He has, mortally; but I am too ill to worry now."
"It will be easy to put a codicil to your will if you have any fresh desires with regard to your property," said Mr. Wiltshire.
"I am dying, Mr. Wiltshire. When you come to face death, you don't much care about money. It cannot go with you, you know."
"But it can stay behind you, my dear madam, and do good to others."
"True, true."
"I fear, I greatly fear that Mr. Trevor may squander it," said Mr. Wiltshire slowly.
"I have no one else to leave it to."
"There is that charming and excellent girl; but dare I suggest it?"
"Which charming and excellent girl?"
"Your secretary and companion, Miss Bertha Keys."
"Ay," said Mrs. Aylmer, "but I should be extremely sorry that she should inherit my money."
"Indeed, and why? No one has been more faithful to you. I know she does not expect a farthing; it would be a graceful surprise. She has one of the longest heads for business I have ever come across; she is an excellent girl."
"Write a codicil and put her name into it," said Mrs. Aylmer fretfully; "I will leave her something."
Pleased even with this assent, somewhat ungraciously given, the lawyer now sat down and wrote some sentences rapidly.
"The sum you will leave to her," he said: "ten, twenty, thirty, forty, shall we say fifty thousand pounds, my dear Mrs. Aylmer?"
"Forty – fifty if you like —anything! Oh, I am choking – I shall die!" cried Mrs. Aylmer.
Mr. Wiltshire hastily inserted the words "fifty thousand pounds" in the codicil. He then took a pen, and called two of the nurses into the room.
"You must witness this," he said. "Please support the patient with pillows. Now, my dear Mrs. Aylmer, just put your name there."
The pen was put into the trembling hand.
"I am giving my money back to – but what does this mean?" Mrs. Aylmer pushed the paper away.
"Sign, sign," said the lawyer; "it is according to your instructions; it is all right. Sign it."
"Poor lady! It is a shame to worry her on the very confines of the grave," said one of the nurses angrily.
"Just write here; you know you have the strength. Here is the pen."
The lawyer put the pen into Mrs. Aylmer's hand. She held it limply for a minute and began to sign. The first letter of her Christian name appeared in a jagged form, the next letter was about to begin when the hand fell and the pen was no longer grasped in the feeble fingers.
"I am about to meet my Maker," she said, with a great sob; "send for the clergyman. Take that away."
"I shall not allow the lady to be worried any longer," said one of the nurses, with flashing eyes.
Mr. Wiltshire was defeated; so was Bertha Keys. The clergyman came and sat for a long time with the sick woman. She listened to what he had to say and then put a question to him.
"I am stronger than I was earlier in the day. I can do what I could not do a few hours back. Oh, I know well that I shall never recover, but before I go hence I want to give back what was entrusted to me."
"What do you mean by that?" he asked.
"I mean my money, my wealth; I wish to return it to God."
"Have you not made your will? It is always right that we should leave our affairs in perfect order."
"I wish to make a fresh will, and at once. My lawyer, Mr. Wiltshire, has come and gone. He wanted me to sign a codicil which would have been wicked. God did not wish it, so He took my strength away. I could not sign the codicil, but now I can sign a fresh will which may be made. If I dictate a fresh will to you, and I put my proper signature, and two nurses sign it, will it be legal?"
"Quite legal," replied the clergyman.
"I will tell you my wishes. Get paper."
The minister crossed the room, took a sheet of paper from a table which stood in the window, and prepared to write.
Mrs. Aylmer's eyes were bright, her voice no longer trembling, and she spoke quickly.
"I, Susan Aylmer, of Aylmer's Court, Shropshire, being quite in my right mind, leave, with the exception of a small legacy of fifty pounds a year to my sister-in-law, Mrs. Aylmer, of Dawlish, all the money I possess to two London hospitals to be chosen by my executor. – Have you put all the money I possess?" she enquired.
"Yes; but is your will fair?" he said. "Have you no other relations to whom you ought to leave some of your wealth?"
"I give all that I possess back to God. He gave me my wealth, and He shall have it again," repeated Mrs. Aylmer; and she doubtless thought she was doing a noble thing.
This brief will was signed without any difficulty by the dying woman and attested by the two nurses. Two hours later, the rich woman left her wealth behind her and went to meet her God.
