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The Time of Roses

by L. T. Meade · English · Gutenberg #28862 · 448,862 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: The Time of Roses

Author: L. T. Meade


        
Release date: May 18, 2009 [eBook #28862]

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/28862

Credits: E-text prepared by D Alexander, Josephine Paolucci, and the Project Gutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE TIME OF ROSES ***


E-text prepared by D Alexander, Josephine Paolucci, and the Project
Gutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team (http://www.pgdp.net)



THE TIME OF ROSES

by

MRS. L. T. MEADE

Author of
"A Bunch of Cherries," "Daddy's Girl," "Bad Little Hannah," "A World of
Girls," "A School Favorite," Etc.







    "It was the Time of Roses;
    We plucked them as we passed."



Chicago
M. A. Donohue & Company

[Illustration]




CONTENTS


CHAPTER                                        PAGE

         I. Home at Last                          5

        II. The Little Mummy's Arrangements      13

       III. A Startling Meeting                  19

        IV. An Evil Genius                       28

         V. Maurice Trevor                       33

        VI. Mrs. Aylmer's Strategy               41

       VII. The Chains Begin to Fret             48

      VIII. Bertha's Quandary                    56

        IX. A Tempting Offer                     63

         X. The Little Mummy's Curiosity         69

        XI. Florence's Good Angel                72

       XII. Alone in London                      80

      XIII. A Weary Wait                         88

       XIV. A Blunt Question                     92

        XV. Edith Franks                         99

       XVI. On the Brink of an Abyss            106

      XVII. Nearer and Nearer                   116

     XVIII. A Vestige of Hope                   121

       XIX. In the Balance                      128

        XX. Rose View                           133

       XXI. An Awkward Position                 137

      XXII. The Story Accepted                  144

     XXIII. Bertha's Joy                        151

      XXIV. Trevor Asks Bertha's Advice         156

       XXV. Trevor's Resolve                    162

      XXVI. At Aylmer's Court                   169

     XXVII. Bertha's Secret                     174

    XXVIII. A Smiling World                     178

      XXIX. Almost Betrayed                     187

       XXX. The Telegram                        194

      XXXI. Bertha Writes the Essay             199

     XXXII. Trevor and Florence                 206

    XXXIII. A Tete-a-Tete                       215

     XXXIV. Maurice Rebels                      221

      XXXV. The Essay Arouses Criticism         225

     XXXVI. A Letter from Home                  230

    XXXVII. Trevor Proposes to Florence         236

   XXXVIII. At the Reception                    241

     XXXIX. An Admirable Arrangement            252

        XL. Is It "Yes" or "No"?                259

       XLI. The Little Mummy in London          271

      XLII. Bertha Keys Defeated                281

     XLIII. Mrs. Aylmer's Will                  290

      XLIV. Bertha Changes Her Tone             298

       XLV. "All the Roses Are Dead"            309

      XLVI. A Denouement                        313

     XLVII. Finis                               324




THE TIME OF ROSES.




CHAPTER I.

HOME AT LAST.


It was on a summer's evening early in the month of August that the
little Mummy was once again seen on the platform at Dawlish.

She looked now very much like she did when we saw her of yore--slightly
broadened, it is true, by the added years, but she still wore somewhat
rusty widow's black, and her face still had that half-anxious,
half-comical expression, which made people turn to look at her with
something between a smile and a sigh. She was commonplace and plain, and
yet in one sense she was neither commonplace nor plain. She had a
character, and that character had developed during the last few years,
and rather for the better.

There were very few passengers on the platform, and the little woman
paced up and down, thinking to herself.

"She is coming home at last. I don't know whether I am glad or sorry. I
wonder what sort of girl Miss Sharston is. She has been very kind to
Florence; but it was rash of Florence to invite her. Still, I suppose
we shall be able to manage all right."

Just then the signal announcing the approaching train was lowered, and a
moment or two later the said train drew up at the platform and one or
two passengers alighted. Amongst these was a tall, well-set-up,
dark-eyed girl, and accompanying her was another girl, who was not so
tall and was very slender, with an ethereal sort of face, and large,
speaking grey eyes.

The tall girl rushed up to where the little Mummy was standing.

"Here I am, Mummy," she said, "and this is Kitty, and we are both tired
and hungry, and glad to see you again. Is there any sort of trap for our
luggage, or can the porter take it and shall we walk to the cottage?"

"The cottage is just as small as ever it was, Florence," replied the
little Mummy. "Oh, I am so glad to see you, Miss Sharston." Here she
shook hands with Kitty Sharston.

"We like things small," said Kitty; "we want to have a real charming
time in the country. It is very good of you to consent to take me in,
Mrs. Aylmer."

A porter now appeared. Florence bustled off to see to the luggage, and
Mrs. Aylmer and Kitty slowly left the station. Florence ran after them
in a moment or two.

"Well," she said, "here we are! Both of us have done with school for
ever and a day. We are grown-up girls ready to take our place in the
world, and to give you a right good time, Mummy; isn't that so, Kitty?"

"Yes," said Kitty, in that gentle voice which always had a pathetic
ring in it. Then she added after a moment's pause: "But I don't know
that I am glad to have left school; I must confess that I enjoyed the
last few years at Cherry Court School immensely."

"Don't talk to me of Cherry Court School," said the widow, with a little
shudder.

She glanced round in an inquiring way at Florence, who coloured faintly
and then said, in a stout voice: "I have repented of that old sin long
ago, and I do not in the least mind having Cherry Court School alluded
to. I have had a right good time, and it was a very lucky thing for me I
did not win that Scholarship, for if I had I should have been eating the
bread of dependence now, whereas--" Here she drew herself up, uttered a
quick sigh, and looked ahead of her.

Her face was not handsome, but it was bright and taking. She was a head
and shoulders taller than the little Mummy, who gazed at her with
something of her old expression of mingled affection and fear. Florence
had quite double the strength of the little Mummy, and this astute
personage was aware of the fact.

They reached the tiny house, where Sukey was standing on the steps,
looking not a day older than she had done six years ago. She dropped a
curtsey when she saw Florence, but Florence ran up and wrung her hand.

"How do you do, Sukey?" she said. "I am very glad to come home, and this
is my great friend Miss Sharston."

Sukey stared up at Kitty; then she glanced at Mrs. Aylmer and slowly
shook her head.

"It's a very, _very_ small house," she said, "and how we are to fit you
two young ladies in is more than I can tell."

"Never mind, Sukey," said Mrs. Aylmer; "I have it all arranged; don't
you go and put your finger into the pie and spoil things, you silly,
stupid old thing."

Here Mrs. Aylmer shook her hand with a playful gesture at Sukey, and
then the entire party found themselves in the house. Florence had not
been home for two or three years. Kitty had never seen the cottage at
Dawlish before. Certainly the one sitting-room was very tiny.

"How it has dwindled!" said Florence, looking round her. "Good gracious!
Why, the ceiling nearly reaches my head, and as for the walls"--she
stretched out her long arms playfully--"I can almost touch from wall to
wall; but never mind, it's home; it's your house, Mummy, and you are
good to take us girls in and look after us for a whole delightful
fortnight."

"There is a very nice supper waiting for you," said Mrs. Aylmer, "and
quite in the old style--crabs and a water-cress salad. I thought you
would appreciate that; we so often had crabs for supper when--when you
were here last, Flo. You remember them, don't you?"

"Nothing could be more appetising," replied Florence. "Would you like to
come upstairs now, Kitty?"

Mrs. Aylmer had given up her wee bed-room to the two girls. Where she
was to sleep was a mystery known only to herself; but, as she seemed
quite cheerful and happy over it, Florence advised Kitty not to
investigate matters too closely.

"It's the Mummy's way," she said; "she likes managing; she quite adores
the thought of having us both with her in this little dull house. Can
you put up with it, Kitty?"

"The place is quite lovely," replied Kitty, "and I would put up with
anything after the news I told you this morning."

"Oh, that your father is really coming back: that you have not to go to
India after all: that you are going to live here and take a beautiful
house and be real mistress of a home," said Florence.

"I don't know anything about the beautiful house, nor being mistress of
a home," replied Kitty; "but I am going to be with father wherever he
is, and that," she added, "will be home to me."

"Of course," answered Florence, in a somewhat wistful tone.

"But what are you going to do, Flo?"

"I am going to earn my living," replied Florence stoutly.

"Of course; but how?"

"I shall talk things over with you and the Mummy. I have left school at
last for good. What a blessing it is that I shall not have anything to
do with Aunt Susan! I feel so jolly independent; but I should like to
meet her and--"

"Girls, supper is ready," called out Mrs. Aylmer's voice from below, and
the two ran downstairs.

The meal was very merry; the old schoolfellows were glad to be together.
Mrs. Aylmer chatted in very much the way she had chatted six years ago.
She could not help constantly alluding to Mrs. Aylmer the great.

"I have not seen her," she said; "but she sends me my money regularly
once a quarter--twelve pounds ten shillings. She never misses a day, I
will say that for her, and I think I am a very good manager not to be
one farthing in debt."

"You are perfectly splendid, mother," replied Florence.

"She has never once asked for you; she said she would not, and she has
kept her word," continued Mrs. Aylmer.

"Well, mother, does it matter?" replied the daughter.

"They say, too," continued the little Mummy--and here she heaved a heavy
sigh--"that she has adopted a young man as her heir. I have never seen
him, but his name is Maurice Trevor. He is no relation of any sort, and
goodness knows why she has adopted him. They say he is a very pushing
and a very designing young man, and that he twists poor Susan round his
little finger. I know she sent him to Cambridge and spent an enormous
sum on him there--two or three hundred a year at the very least--and now
he has returned and lives with her, and is to take the management of her
estates. She has been buying a lot of fresh property; but there--I am
sick of the subject. You didn't play your cards well, Florence; you
ought to have been in the position which young Mr. Trevor occupies."

"I am glad I am not," replied Florence; "I'm twice the girl for being
independent. Mother, Kitty and I want to go out and have a walk by the
seashore."

"Do, my dear, do; I have a great deal to contrive and manage, and
Susan's temper is not what it was. Oh, don't breathe it too loud. I
wouldn't part with her for the world; but really she does rule me.
She'll be as cross as two sticks because we sat so long over supper. Do
go; it is a lovely evening."

So the two girls put on their hats and went out. There was a silver moon
shining to-night on a silver sea, and the place looked calm and
peaceful, as if no storms had ever ruffled those waters: as if no
trouble had ever visited those shores.

Kitty, whose heart was full of song and her face of delight, almost
danced as she walked. Florence's steps were also full of spring, but
they were a little slower than her companion's.

"What are you thinking of, Flo?" said the younger girl.

"All sorts of things," replied Florence; "about that man, Maurice
Trevor, for instance. I don't envy him."

"Nor do I. I wonder he submits to it," said Kitty. "But don't let us
think of him. He has nothing whatever to do with us."

"No more he has," answered Florence; "but to eat the bread of
dependence: to eat _her_ bread! Oh, he must be a horror! I only trust I
shall never meet him."

Kitty now linked her arm inside her companion's.

"You must often come and stay with me," she said: "it would be
delightful. I will coax and beg of father to have a house where you can
come; then you will have two homes, you know, Florry: the little Mummy's
home, as you always call your mother, and my home. You will be equally
welcome at both. Oh, dear, you are quite my very greatest friend--the
greatest friend I have in all the world."

"You are wonderfully good to put up with me," said Florence; "but there,
I have repented of that old sin, and it is not going to darken my
life."

"There is only one thing I dislike about you, Florence," said Kitty. She
frowned slightly as she spoke.

"What is that?"

"You always will revert to the old times. Just do promise me that you
won't speak of them again, at least to me."

"I will try not, darling; but you are good to forget."




CHAPTER II.

THE LITTLE MUMMY'S ARRANGEMENTS.


Those who remember "A Bunch of Cherries" will recall the fact that
Florence Aylmer left Cherry Court School under a cloud: that Kitty
Sharston won the prize offered by Sir John Wallis, and of course stayed
on at the school; and that Bertha Keys, finding her game was up and her
wickedness discovered, disappeared--it was hoped by the unhappy girl
whom she had injured never to show her face again.

In this old world of ours, however, bad people do not always receive
their punishment, and it came to pass that Bertha Keys, although she had
failed in the case of Cherry Court School, did manage to feather her
nest and to secure a very comfortable post for herself.

So daring an adventuress was this young woman that she absolutely made
up her mind to lay siege to no less a person than Mrs. Aylmer the great.

It was easy for her to do this. Mrs. Aylmer had not noticed her on that
auspicious occasion when all the girls of the school were collected in
Sir John Wallis's fine old house. The part that Bertha had played in the
affair, which had lowered her niece in her eyes for ever, was very
slightly impressed on her memory. There was a pupil teacher who had not
behaved right, but what the name of that pupil teacher was had never
sunk into the good lady's memory.

She was terribly disappointed about her niece Florence, although she
pretended not to care, and a month or two afterwards she advertised in a
local paper for a companion.

The person who answered this advertisement was Bertha Keys. She managed
to satisfy the good lady with regard to testimonials, taking care never
to breathe the name of Cherry Court School. She secured the post, and
from that moment ruled Mrs. Aylmer, although Mrs. Aylmer supposed that
she ruled her.

Florence found a friend in Sir John Wallis, who put her on the
foundation of an excellent school which he knew of. She was well
educated, and now at the age of twenty was prepared to fight the battle
of life.

Florence had received a present of twenty pounds from Sir John Wallis on
leaving school, and with this slender provision she meant to fight the
world and find her own niche.

Kitty Sharston had fulfilled all her early promise of beauty and grace.
Her father was now returning to England, and she was to go and live with
him.

Mrs. Aylmer the less was just as determined and just as peculiar as in
the days of old. She always spoke out what she thought, and the next
morning at breakfast, as the two girls with rosy faces and bright eyes
sat round the very tiny board, she expounded her views.

"Florence," she said, "I am nothing if I am not frank."

"We know that, Mummy," replied her daughter, with a twinkle in her
bright dark eyes; "what is up now?"

"Only this: I have been thinking things in the night."

"Oh, do satisfy my curiosity, Mrs. Aylmer," exclaimed Kitty; "where did
you sleep last night? You don't know how uncomfortable Florry and I
were, fearing we had taken your bed."

"Which you did, my dear. If it was a subject of fear, your fears were
realised," responded the little widow.

"Oh, but this is quite dreadful: ought we to stay on here, Florry, or,
at least, ought I to stay on?"

"How much, Florry, are you going to pay me per week?" now exclaimed Mrs.
Aylmer. "I wish I could take you, my dear, darling child, for nothing;
but the fact is, I cannot, and if I could Sukey would not allow it.
Sukey says that a greater stint she will not bear, and twelve pounds ten
a quarter cannot be made to go farther than we two poor women make it
go, Florence. Do you think you could rise to the sum of fifteen
shillings a week if I give you meat every day?"

"Of course, Mummy, of course."

"And I must and will pay a pound a week," said Kitty; "why, it is
cheap--so cheap that father will be more than astonished, and the place
is so lovely, and I am enjoying it greatly. Can you put me up and give
me what food I require for a pound a week, Mrs. Aylmer?"

"It will be riches," said Mrs. Aylmer, with tears in her eyes. "The fact
is, I can feed you both comfortably for ten shillings a piece, and the
rest will be clear profit: fifteen shillings over for clear profit. Why,
I won't know myself. I might be able to buy some new clothes; for I
declare, my dears, I am shabby, having turned and turned and contrived
and contrived until my clothes are past wearing. Your aunt has not sent
me a box of her cast-offs for over a year, and I think it is extremely
unkind of her."

"But you have not told me yet where you slept last night, dear Mrs.
Aylmer," said Kitty.

"Well, dear, if you must know, I slept here in this room. I slept on the
dining-table. I borrowed some extra pillows from a neighbour, or,
rather, Sukey borrowed them for me, for it would never do for my friends
to suppose that I have not got abundance of pillows in my own house. I
have had quite a luxurious night, my dear girls; so pray don't trouble
about me."

Kitty looked somewhat inclined to cry, but Florence burst out laughing.
She jumped up, went to her mother, and put her arms round her neck.

"You dear little Mummy," she said; "you are too comical for anything."

"There is no doubt whatever," replied Mrs. Aylmer, in answer to this
caress, "that God Almighty makes us each in the most useful shape and
form. Now, you are big, Florence, and could never manage on a table, but
a little woman like me--why, it comes in most handy. Everything is
arranged for the best, and so I always say." Here she glanced around her
with her black eyes full of merriment, and certainly she looked as
happy, notwithstanding her uncomfortable bed, as woman could look.

"I thought of sharing the kitchen with Sukey," she said; "but she won't
stand any disarrangement of her habits, so there was nothing but the
table, and if you think that it isn't worth that small discomfort for
the sake of having you two bright young things about the house, and the
neighbours remarking on you and wondering how I am managing, and I with
fifteen shillings a week to the good in my pocket, why, you don't know
your mother, Florence Aylmer."

"Well, Mummy, and what was that thought you said you had in the back of
your head?" continued Florence.

"Oh, that," said Mrs. Aylmer--here she looked at both girls. "I wonder,
Kitty Sharston," she said, "if you can keep a secret?"

"Try me, Mrs. Aylmer," replied Kitty.

"Well, I was thinking things over in the night, and it struck me that
the very best possible way to punish my sister-in-law, Susan Aylmer, and
have everything that was wrong put right, is for you, Florence, to
secure the young man, Maurice Trevor, as your husband."

"Oh, mother, how can you talk such nonsense?" said Florence. "As if I
would," she added, jumping to her feet and shaking the crumbs from her
dress.

"There," said Mrs. Aylmer, "that's just like you. I have been planning
it all. You have but to show the fascinations which all women ought to
possess, and you will soon twist him round your little finger."

"I could never, never think of it, mother; and I am distressed that you
should say it, and more particularly before Kitty," was Florence's
answer.

Mrs. Aylmer laughed.

"Girls always say that," she remarked, "but in the end they yield to the
inevitable. It would be a splendid _coup_; it would serve her right.
She would be forced to have you living with her after all. I am told she
has made the young man the heir of all she possesses, and--but what is
the matter, my dear?"

"I really won't listen to another word," cried Florence, and she jumped
up and ran out of the room.

Mrs. Aylmer's eyes now filled with tears. She looked full at Kitty.

"I don't know what is the matter with Florence," she said. "I had hoped
that that dreadful thing which happened years ago had subdued her spirit
and tamed her a trifle, but she seems just as obdurate as ever. It was
such a beautiful idea, and it came over me in the night, and I thought I
would tell Florence at once, and we might put our heads together and
contrive a means by which the young folks could meet; but if she takes
it up in that dreadful spirit, what is to be done?"

"But, of course, Mrs. Aylmer, it would never do," said Kitty. "How can
you think of such a thing for a single moment?"




CHAPTER III.

A STARTLING MEETING.


Kitty went out soon afterwards and joined Florence on the beach. They
walked up and down, chatting eagerly. For a time nothing whatever was
said about Mrs. Aylmer's queer suggestion; then suddenly Florence spoke
of it.

"There is one thing I ought to say, Kitty."

"What is that?" asked Kitty.

"You must never mind the little Mummy's oddities. She has lived alone on
extremely circumscribed means for many years, and when she gets an idea
into her head she broods on it."

"You mean, of course, what she said with regard to Mr.--Mr. Trevor,"
said Kitty, flushing as she spoke.

"Yes, it wasn't nice of her," said Florence, with a sigh; "and we won't
either of us think of it again. Kitty, I have made up my mind not to
marry."

"Why so?"

"For a great many reasons. One of them is that I vastly prefer my
independence. Another is that I do not think a rich nice man is likely
to come in my way, and I do not want to have anything to do with a poor
man, whether he is nice or nasty. I have seen too much of poverty. I
have had it close to me all my days. I mean to do well in the world: to
be beholden to no one. In a fortnight's time I am going to London. I am
just taking this one fortnight of rest and refreshment: then I go to
London. I have in my trunk half a dozen introductions to different
people. I mean to use them; I mean to get something to do; I mean to
step from the lowest rung of the ladder up to the highest. I mean to be
a success: to prove to the world that a girl can fight her own battles,
live her own life, secure her reward--be, in short, a success."

"Why, Florence," said her companion, "how well you speak; how excited
you look!"

"I have not gone through all I have gone through in my life for
nothing," was Florence's reply. "I will never scheme again, I will never
again do anything underhand, and I will not marry the man my mother has
singled out for me."

She had scarcely said the words before the attention of both girls was
arrested by the sound of a merry laugh not ten yards away. They both
looked round, and Florence's cheeks first of all grew vivid and then
turned white. A gracefully-dressed woman, or rather girl, was crossing
the sands, accompanied by a young man in a grey suit. The man had broad
shoulders, closely-cropped, rather fair hair, a sweeping moustache, and
eyes as blue as the sky. He had a nice, open sort of face. He was tall,
nearly six feet in height, and held himself as erect as a grenadier. He
was bending towards the girl and talking to her, and the girl continued
to laugh, and once she glanced with a quick, darting movement in the
direction where Kitty and Florence were sitting. Then, touching her
companion on the arm, she said: "I am tired; will you take me back to
the hotel?"

Neither Kitty nor Florence said a word until the pair--the good-looking,
well-set-up young man and the girl in her pretty summer
dress--disappeared from view. Then Florence turned to Kitty.

"It is?" said Florence.

Kitty nodded.

"Who would have believed it?" continued Florence. She started up in her
excitement.

"I do not think I can quite stand this," she said.

"But where has she come from?" said Kitty again.

"How can I tell? I never want to see her wicked face again."

"She looks just as young as she did six years ago," said Kitty. Then she
added impulsively: "I am sorry I have seen her again; I never could bear
her face. Do you think her eyes were set quite straight in her head,
Florence?"

"I don't know anything about that," answered Florence recklessly. "Long
ago she did me a great deal of harm. There came a time when I almost
hated her. Whether her eyes are straight or not, her mind at least is
crooked. Who is that man she is with?"

"He is good-looking and looks nice also," said Kitty.

Florence made no reply. The girls paced up and down together; but
somehow the edge of the day's enjoyment seemed gone. They went in to
their midday meal between twelve and one, and afterwards Kitty, who said
she felt a little tired, went to lie down. Florence, however, was still
restless and perturbed; she hated the thought of the vicinity of Bertha
Keys, and yet she had a curious longing to know something about her.

"I am not going to fight shy of her or to show her that I am in the
least afraid of her," thought Florence; "I can make myself much more
disagreeable to her and much more dangerous than she can ever make
herself to me. I wonder where she is staying?"

Mrs. Aylmer proposed that she and her daughter should spend the
afternoon on the sands.

"Let us visit the shrimp-woman and get some fresh shrimps and perhaps a
crab or a lobster for supper," said the little Mummy, holding out a bait
which would have quite won the day in the old times. But Florence had
outgrown her taste for these special dainties.

"I want to go out alone, Mummy," she said; "you and I and Kitty can have
a walk after tea, but just for the present I must be alone." She pinned
on her hat, put on her gloves, and left the cottage.

Mrs. Aylmer stood in the porch and watched her.

"A good girl, a fairly good-looking girl too," she said to herself, "but
obstinate, obstinate as a mule. Even that trouble of long ago has not
tamed her. She is the image of her poor dear father; he always was a man
with a desperate will of his own."

Miss Aylmer watched Florence until she disappeared in the direction of
the pier. There was a bench there, and a girl was seated on it. She wore
a pink dress of some washing material and a large black shady hat.
Florence came nearer and nearer. The girl, who was reading a book,
dropped it and gazed in her direction. Presently Florence found herself
within less than two hundred yards from the place where the other girl
was seated. At this moment the girl flung down her book, uttered a hasty
exclamation, and came forward.

"Is it or is it not Florence Aylmer?" she said. She held out both her
hands, uttering a little cry of apparent pleasure.

Florence did not notice the outstretched hands. She came up to her.

"I have come on purpose," she said; "I knew you were here. What are you
doing here?"

"Why should I tell you what I am doing?" replied Bertha. Her eyes
slightly contracted, she pushed her hair away from her forehead, then
she looked full at Florence and uttered a laugh. "What is the good of
quarrelling?" she said. "We have met. I am in the running; you are out
of it. I am up and you are down. My prospects are first-rate, yours----"

"What do you mean? How can you tell anything about my prospects? Why do
you trouble me? Why did you come to meet me just now?"

"Speak the truth," said Miss Keys; "were you not coming on purpose to
see me?"

Florence was silent for a moment.

"I recognised you this morning," she said, "and I was restless to know
why you were here."

"Ah, curiosity, you are Eve's own daughter," said Bertha Keys, with a
laugh. "Well, now that we have met, we may as well talk the thing out.
Can you deny that you are down and I am up?"

"I neither deny nor affirm your statement," replied Florence. "I have
never heard of you--I have never mentioned your name since that
dreadful day at Cherry Court six years ago."

"Six years this autumn--not quite six years yet," replied Bertha,
correcting her. "Yes, I too remember the day," she said thoughtfully.
"It seemed a bad day for me, and yet it was a good one. I have feathered
my nest. You stepped out of it and I stepped in. Do you understand?"

"I don't."

"You have grown a good deal, Florence Aylmer," said Bertha, looking her
all over. "You are what would be called a fine young woman. If you had
had the advantages of a refined life, of very good dress, you might, now
that you are grown up, command almost any future. As it is"--she
shrugged her shoulders.

"What is the matter with my dress?" said Florence; "you always were
queer and rude, Bertha, and time has not improved you."

"You cannot say that I am badly dressed," said Bertha Keys, and she
glanced at her exquisitely-cut pink zephyr skirt, her pretty blouse, and
her neat shoes.

Florence also eyed her all over.

"You are well got up," she said; "but what of that? Your face never
changes."

"Thank you for the compliment," replied Bertha; "I cannot say that you
are well got up, and your face, if it has changed, is not more beautiful
than it promised to be."

"Pray leave my face alone; it belongs to me, not to you," retorted
Florence, with some spirit.

"Do you want to know what I am doing now: how I am managing to live?"
said Bertha.

"You can tell me if you please; if you prefer not to say anything, it
does not matter in the least."

"But it does matter; it matters a good deal," replied Bertha. "You did
something very silly long ago. You thought to succeed, but you failed.
It was not my fault. I did what I could for you. If I was clever then, I
am still more clever now. I have a gift of writing, but I need not wear
my brain out thinking of curious essays and well-devised stories and
clever plots. I am working at my own story, and I think it will come off
well."

"But what do you mean? Where are you?"

"We are staying at the 'Crown and Garter' for the present."

"We?" said Florence, in a questioning tone.

"Yes; how stupid you are! Have not you guessed! Mrs. Aylmer, Mr. Trevor,
and I."

"You don't mean it?" said Florence, springing to her feet. "Aunt Susan!
Are you staying with her?"

"Yes, and I fancy I am indispensable to her. I have lived with her for
nearly six years. I manage her affairs; I write her letters; I attend to
her business; she consults me about everything. She goes where I like;
she does what I want. The nest is comfortable. It was meant for you, but
it fits me. Now perhaps you know."

"And Mr.--Mr. Trevor?" said Florence, in a trembling voice.

"Oh, he fits me too. He is a very good fellow, very nice indeed. He
thinks I am quite an angel; he admires my talent, as he calls it. I
believe he would be very sad if I were not there; he is much more likely
to go than I am. Yes, Florence, you did well for me when you lost that
Scholarship. I thought I would tell you."

"Oh! oh!" said Florence, trembling and turning pale; "but if Aunt Susan
knew! If she knew!"

"Yes, if she knew," said Bertha, "but she does not know, and of course
you won't tell her."

"You think I won't; but--but Mummy will."

"I don't think so. It would be much worse for yourselves if you did. I
can hoodwink her; I can turn her against your mother; I can make her
more bitterly opposed to you. Now you have to understand. I have long
felt that I must come to an understanding with you. You must keep
silence. If you speak you will do very little good, but it is possible
you may give me an uncomfortable half-hour. Now, I don't care to have an
uncomfortable half-hour, and, above all things, I don't want Mr. Trevor
set against me."

"Do you--do you mean to marry him?" said Florence abruptly.

Bertha Keys coloured very faintly.

"You are impertinent," she said; "I refuse to answer. I am comfortable
where I am, and I mean to stay there. If you put Mr. Trevor against me,
if you put Mrs. Aylmer against me, it will be all the worse for
yourself; but if, on the other hand, you respect my secret, I can make
things perhaps a shade more comfortable for you."

"Oh, oh, Bertha, no," said poor Florence. She covered her face--her
cheeks were crimson. "I hate you! I can never be your friend. Why did
you come here?"

"I came on purpose. I have not lost sight of you. You know something
about me which I do not want the world to know. You could make things
uncomfortable for me. I guessed that you would be coming here about now,
and Mrs. Aylmer, Mr. Trevor, and I came to the 'Crown and Garter' at my
suggestion. We will leave again the day after to-morrow; but not--not
until you have made me a promise."




CHAPTER IV.

AN EVIL GENIUS.


After Bertha said the last words, Florence was quite silent. Bertha
turned and looked at her; then, satisfied with what she saw or fancied
she saw in her face, she turned aside again, giving a faint sigh as she
did so.

"It was a narrow shave," she said to herself; "this had to be. If she
took it in one way all was lost; but she won't take it in that dreadful
way: she will protect me for her own sake. The girl who could stoop to
deceit, who could use my assistance to gain her own ends six years ago,
is not immaculate now. I can use her in the future; she will be
extremely useful in many ways, and my secret is absolutely safe."

So Bertha leant back against the bench, crossed one prettily-shod foot
over the other, and looked out across the summer sea. Presently Florence
spoke in a low tone.

"Good-bye," she said. She rose as she uttered the words.

"Why do you say that? Sit down again. We have come to no terms."

"We cannot come to any," answered Florence, in still that low, almost
heart-broken voice. Then, all of a sudden, without the least warning,
she burst into tears.

"You bring the past back to me, Bertha," she said: "the hateful past."

"It is very silly of you indeed to cry," said Bertha; "and as to the
past, goodness knows it is dead and buried deep enough unless you choose
to dig it out of its grave. Leave it alone, Florence, and come to terms
with me. Now, for goodness' sake stop crying!"

"I won't tell of you just at present," said Florence; "that is the only
thing I can say now." Once more she rose.

"You had Kitty Sharston with you this morning," continued Bertha. "She
recognised me too, did she not?"

"Yes, we both recognised you."

"I never did anything particular to injure her; I mean, everything came
right for her," continued Bertha; "she could scarcely interfere. It is
you whom I dread. You and your mother between you can do me harm; but,
after all, even at your very worst I may not be deprived of my present
comfortable home and my delightful future. But I do not choose to run
the risk, so you must promise that you won't betray me."

"Does mother know that Mrs. Aylmer--that Aunt Susan is staying at
Dawlish?" continued Florence.

"She probably knows it by this time. Mrs. Aylmer has written her a note
asking her to call to see her. She won't see you, so don't imagine it."

"I don't want to see her."

"Before your mother accepts that invitation, I want you to secure her
silence; or, stay," continued Bertha briskly, "I will see her myself."
She thought for a moment over a new idea which had come to her. Her lips
then broke into smiles.

"How stupid of me!" she said. "I never thought of your mother before;
she is the very person. I will meet you to-morrow morning here,
Florence, and then you can tell me what you decide. It will be all the
better for you if you are wise: all the worse for you if you are silly.
Now go home, as I see you are dying to do so."

Florence turned away from her companion without even bidding her
good-bye: her heart was in a tumult. She scarcely knew what to say or
what to do.

She did not want to injure Bertha, and yet she hated to feel that she
was in her present position. She disliked her as much as it was possible
for her to dislike anyone.

"She makes me feel bad," thought the girl; "she brings back the dreadful
past. Oh, I was a wicked girl; but she helped to make me so. She brings
back the dreadful, dreadful past."

By the time she had reached her mother's cottage she resolved to tell
her exactly what had transpired and to ask her advice.

"For the little Mummy must also have learned her lesson: the little
Mummy will tell me what is right to do," thought the girl.

But when she entered the house Mrs. Aylmer was nowhere to be seen.

Sukey, on the contrary, came forward with an important manner.

"Well, Miss Flo," she said, "when you come to the place, that aunt of
yours seems also to put in an appearance. Your mother has had a note
from her. She is staying at the 'Crown and Garter,' and Mrs. Aylmer has
gone up there to tea. No, you are not invited, Miss Flo, and sorry I am
that you are not."

"It doesn't matter, Sukey," replied Florence. She sighed as she spoke.

"Have you a bit of a headache, my dear?" asked the old servant.

"Yes, I think I have," answered the girl.

"I'll get you your tea, and the tea for the other pretty young lady too.
You can have it in the porch. It's a lovely evening. It don't do for
girls to have headaches; but there's nothing to set you right like a cup
of tea."

Sukey bustled off to prepare the simple meal, and presently Kitty came
downstairs. She was refreshed by her sleep and inclined to be merry with
Florence. Florence, however, felt too anxious to talk much.

"What is the matter with you, Florry? Are you worried about anything?"
asked the companion. "Oh, I suppose it is about that wretched Bertha
Keys. What can she be doing here?"

"You'll be amazed when I tell you that I saw Bertha this afternoon,"
continued Florence. "Where do you think she is staying? What post do you
think she has secured?"

"How can I tell?" answered Kitty, raising her brows almost with
impatience; then she added, before Florence could utter a word: "I am
afraid I don't greatly care. All you and I want is that she should not
come into our lives."

"But she has come into my life once more," said poor Florence, clasping
and unclasping her strong white hands as she spoke. "I believe she is my
evil genius. I quite dread her, and she has a power over me, and it has
not lessened, although I have not seen her for six years. Do you know
where she is staying?"

"No."

"She is living with Aunt Susan Aylmer as her companion."

Kitty was so much startled by the news that she sprang to her feet.

"Never!" she cried.

"It is the case; she has been with Aunt Susan for years."

"But how did she get the post? From the little I have seen of your aunt,
she is one of the most particular, fastidious women in the world."

"Trust Bertha to manage that," replied Florence, in a bitter tone; "but
anyhow, she is very much afraid of me: she does not want me to see Aunt
Susan, nor tell her what I know."

"And what will you do, Flo?"

"I am undecided at the present moment."

"I think you ought to tell her," said Kitty gravely.

"She won't see me, and I do dread making Bertha a greater enemy than she
is at present."

"All the same, I think you ought to tell her," replied Kitty. She looked
grave and earnest as she spoke.

"If I were you I would," replied Florence, with some bitterness; "if I
were you I would never do a crooked thing, or think a crooked thought;
but I am not made that way. I am different, quite different. She
frightens me."

"Well, don't think any more of her just now. Take your tea and let us go
out for a walk."




CHAPTER V.

MAURICE TREVOR.


Florence's head ached sufficiently badly to make her inclined to
follow Kitty's advice. The girls had just finished their tea when
Mrs. Aylmer, with flushed cheeks, and wearing her very best
turned-for-the-twentieth-time dress, entered the little room where they
were seated.

"Well, well, girls," she said: "well, well, where do you think I have
been?"

"I know, Mummy," said Florence.

"You know!" replied Mrs. Aylmer. "Who told you?"

"Sukey."

"I begged of her not; but really that woman can keep nothing to herself,
and she is always agog to be first in the field. Your aunt is going to
send me a trunk full of old clothes. I dare say some of them may be made
to fit you, Flo."

"I do not think so, mother," answered Florence.

"Where is the use of being proud? She's a very fine figure of a woman
still. She wears wonderfully, and she has a most charming secretary: a
sort of companion, a delightful girl. She and I walked down together
almost to this door. She is in your shoes, my poor Florence; but she is
really a _very_ nice girl."

"I have seen her to-day, mother; I know who she is," said Florence
gravely; "her name is Bertha Keys."

"Bertha Keys," replied Mrs. Aylmer; "Bertha Keys?"

"You know who Bertha Keys is, mother. She is the girl, the pupil
teacher, who behaved so badly at Cherry Court School six years ago."

"Oh, we won't mention that affair; it is dead and buried; we are not
going to dig it out of its grave," replied Mrs. Aylmer.

Florence did not reply. She looked full at her mother.

"Bertha has been saying something to her," she thought; "she has been
trying to influence her. Those were almost Bertha's own words." She got
up hastily.

"The fact is, mother, I do not care to talk of it," she said; "the whole
thing has upset me very much."

"Well, darling, I cannot think that it is your affair. It is bitterly
disappointing that you should have lost your Aunt Susan's patronage. How
proud I should be of you now if you were really her adopted daughter."

"Why, no, mother, you would not see me; you forget that part."

"To be sure, how stupid I am!" said Mrs. Aylmer. "Well, your aunt was
most agreeable to-day: not so stingy either. We had quite a nice little
tea; and that young man I told you of, Mr. Trevor, he came in. He is a
charming person, my dear; quite fascinating. I was much taken with him.
I longed to ask him to call, but I saw that Susan would allow no
liberties. He chatted to me all the time, and was so agreeable. I am
quite delighted with him."

"We are going for a walk now, mother," said Florence.

"Well, dear, do; you both look pale. I want you to get nice and
sunburnt, and to have a right good time. Yes, I am quite pleased with my
visit. There is no use in quarrelling with your relations, and Susan,
the moment she looked at my poor turned skirt--it is shiny, is it not,
Miss Sharston?--she spoke about that trunk of clothes which is to arrive
next week. She turned to the charming Miss Keys, and asked her to
collect them."

"And you stood it, mother; you really stood it," said Florence, the
colour coming and going on her face.

"My dear, good girl, beggars cannot be choosers. I have been absolutely
at my wits' ends for clothes since Susan has been so thoughtless. I not
only stood it, but on the way home I gave Miss Keys a hint as to the
sort of things I wanted. I told her to try and smuggle into the trunk
one of your aunt's rich black silks. She said she thought she could
manage it, as she has at least four or five at the present moment, and
never can tell herself how many she has. I told Miss Keys to let it be
four in the future, and send the fifth on to me, and she laughed. She is
a very clever, agreeable girl, and said she thought it could be done. I
am made. I'll astonish the neighbours this winter."

"Come out, Kitty," said poor Florence, turning to her companion. She
felt that, fond as she was of the little Mummy, she could not endure any
more of her society for the present.

The moment the girls had departed, Mrs. Aylmer, who was standing on
tiptoe near the window to watch them as they went slowly away in the
direction of the beach, turned abruptly, went to the door of the little
sitting-room, and locked it. She then put her hand into her pocket.

"Is it true? Have I the evidence of my own senses?" she thought. "I
never met a nicer girl than Miss Keys. Of course, she did wrong years
ago: but so, for that matter, did my own poor Florence. She really can
be made of great use. That black silk will be invaluable, and...." Here
the widow, from the depths of her pocket, brought out four sovereigns.
"She says she can give me more by-and-by, and I am to influence
Florence. Of course I will. Do I envy the poor child her post? By no
means. As Florence cannot occupy it, as well she as another. That she is
setting her cap at that handsome Mr. Trevor there is no doubt; but
perhaps Florence can win him over her head. We will see about that.
Anyhow, I am not going to injure the poor, dear girl, and I shall tell
Florence so."

Mrs. Aylmer felt far too excited to sit down. From the depths of poverty
she suddenly felt herself raised almost to a pinnacle of wealth, as she
estimated it.

Four golden sovereigns and the faithful promise of one of Susan's best
silk dresses. "There will be lots of odds and ends besides," thought the
little widow. "I am made! I am made! Now, if I only could! if I only
could!"

As she considered the possibility of a very definite line of action, she
still continued to stand by the tiny window of the sitting room, and
from this vantage-point she saw a young man in a grey tweed suit
strolling slowly in the direction of the sea-beach.

"Mr. Trevor!" she said to herself; "Mr. Maurice Trevor, as
gentlemanly-looking a young fellow as I have seen for many a day. He
reminds me of poor dear Florence's father. He had just that downright
sort of air, and he was fond of sticking his hands into his pockets
too--yes, and he used to whistle, as I see that young fellow is
whistling. I am always told that whistling is a good sign: it shows a
generous disposition. If I am not greatly mistaken, that young man
Maurice Trevor is generous and open-handed; he'll suit me. Now, if I
could only introduce them! Florence and Kitty Sharston are on the
beach--Mr. Trevor is going down to the beach. I'll go and take a walk.
It is a fine evening, and it will do me good."

No sooner had this thought come to Mrs. Aylmer than she bustled into the
kitchen.

"Well, ma'am," said Sukey, in a cross voice, "have you washed up the
tea-things yet? We're in a rare mull this afternoon with those two young
ladies in the house, and I can't do more than I said I would do. You
promised that the tea-things should be your care, ma'am; and are they
washed up? That's what I want to know."

"Oh, my dear good Sukey, don't worry about the tea-things now," said
Mrs. Aylmer. "I am in no end of a flurry. A beautiful new black silk
dress is promised to me, Sukey, and I am made in other ways too. You
wash them up, and I'll give you threepence; I will--I promise you."

"You can't afford it, ma'am. What's the good of promising what you
haven't got?" said the obdurate Sukey.

"I will; I declare I will, and I'll bring in something nice and tasty
for supper. You wash the tea-things, there's a good soul!"

Mrs. Aylmer scarcely waited for Sukey's very indignant reply. The next
moment she was out of the house.

She could walk quickly enough when she chose, and she knew every yard of
the ground. Soon she was on the beach. Mr. Trevor was walking slowly in
front of her. He was smoking a cigarette, his straw hat was pushed
slightly forward over his blue eyes, his hands were still in his
pockets, he was looking straight ahead of him, and as he slowly
sauntered forward he was thinking. His thoughts were evidently not quite
to his taste, for he frowned now and then, and looked over the wide
expanse of sands, and occasionally he stood quite still. Thus Mrs.
Aylmer found it easy to catch him up. She did so with a little pattering
run which was one of her characteristics.

"Good evening, Mr. Trevor," she said, in her cheerful tone.

He started when she spoke to him, turned to look at her, and then took
off his hat.

"Good evening," he said; "I did not recognise you at first."

"No wonder, as you only saw me for the first time to-day. I am taking a
stroll; it is very pleasant here in the evenings, is it not?"

"Very pleasant! It is a charming place," said Trevor.

Mrs. Aylmer considered for a moment whether she should proceed on her
walk alone, or whether she should try to induce the young man to
accompany her.

"I am looking for my girls," she said; "they went down on the beach
half an hour ago. Did you happen to see them, Mr. Trevor, as you were
walking?"

"I have only just come out. I have not seen anyone," was his answer.

"Are you quite sure? I _know_ they were going on the sands, my two
girls, my daughter and her friend. I should like to introduce you to my
daughter, Mr. Trevor."

"I should be pleased to know her," he answered, still speaking in that
vague sort of way which showed that he was thinking of something else.

Mrs. Aylmer held both her hands before her eyes. Thus shaded from the
evening sun, she was able to look long and steadily across the beach.

"I do declare I believe those two are the very girls we are looking
for," she cried; "if you will come with me now (and I don't suppose you
have anything special to do) I'll introduce you."

Trevor had, of course, no excuse to make. He was not interested in Mrs.
Aylmer's daughter, nor in Mrs. Aylmer herself, but as well walk with her
as alone. So the two stepped briskly across the sands.

"It was the greatest possible pleasure to me to meet you to-day,"
continued the little widow; "I am so glad that my poor sister-in-law has
a bright young fellow like you to look thoroughly after her affairs."

"But I don't look after them," he said; "Mrs. Aylmer has been extremely
good to me, but the person who manages her business affairs is that very
clever young lady, Miss Keys."

"Oh, what a genius she is!" said Mrs. Aylmer; "a wonderful girl, quite
charming."

"Do you think so?" answered Trevor. He looked at the little widow, and
the faintest dawn of an amused smile stole into his eyes.

"Do I think so? I am immensely taken with her," said Mrs. Aylmer. "She
is, I know, the greatest comfort to my dear sister-in-law. How
splendidly Susan wears, and how considerate she is! I don't know what I
should do without her. Mr. Trevor, I will say it, you are a very lucky
person to be such a favourite."

"Mrs. Aylmer has done a great deal for me," said the young man; "she has
after a fashion adopted me."

"And you are very glad, are you not?"

"Yes, I am glad," he replied. "Is that your daughter?" he continued, as
if he wished to turn the conversation.

"That is my dear daughter Florence." Mrs. Aylmer spoke excitedly.

Florence and Kitty Sharston were seated on the edge of a rock. Kitty was
poking with her parasol at some sea-anemones which were clinging to the
rock just under the water. Florence was gazing with a frown between her
dark brows at her mother and the man who was by her mother's side. If
she could have fled, she would, but Mrs. Aylmer, who knew Florence's
ways to perfection, now raised her voice to a shrill scream.

"Stay where you are, Florence; I am coming to sit with you, so is Mr.
Trevor; don't stir until we come up."

Poor Florence's blush was so vivid that it was well it was too far off
to be noticed. There was nothing for it, however, but to obey. Mrs.
Aylmer came up in high good humour, and made the necessary
introductions.




CHAPTER VI.

MRS. AYLMER'S STRATEGY.


"Now, this is cosy," said the widow, "quite what I call friendly. I love
these impromptu little meetings; all the stiffness which generally
surrounds a first introduction must vanish when four human creatures
find themselves face to face with Nature in her grandest aspects. Look
at those great rolling waves, Mr. Trevor, and tell me if you ever saw
anything finer in its way."

"Oh, mother, don't be a goose," said Florence. Try as she would, she
could not help laughing. That laugh settled the matter. Trevor looked
into her dancing eyes, noticed how white her teeth were, and, moving a
step nearer, sat down by her side.

"Do you know this place well?" he asked.

"It has been my home for the greater part of my life," was Florence's
reply.

She felt inclined to be rude to Mr. Trevor. The man who was adopted by
Aunt Susan, who was doubtless the chosen and confidential friend of
Bertha Keys, could surely have no interest for her! But Trevor had a
gentle and very polite manner. It never occurred to him that this
somewhat showy-looking girl could dislike his company. He was
good-looking himself, and accustomed to being made much of and petted a
good deal by women, and before many minutes had passed, Florence, in
spite of herself, was chatting gaily with him.

She forgot that her mother had manoeuvred in the most open and brazen
way to secure this introduction; she forgot everything but the pleasure
of talking to a fellow-creature, who seemed to understand her
sentiments, and also to approve them. When a young man approves of a
girl's ideas, when he likes to look into her face and watch the sparkle
of her eyes, she must be one in a thousand if she does not find him
agreeable, sympathetic, and all the rest.

Presently Trevor suggested that he and Florence should go down on the
beach, cross some low-lying rocks, and find a certain pool, which at low
water contained the most lovely of sea-anemones to be found anywhere
round the coast.

"Oh, come too, mother; come too, Kitty," said Florence, as she jumped to
her feet.

"No, my dear, I am much too tired," said Mrs. Aylmer. She clutched at
Kitty's skirt as the young girl was about to rise, and pulled her back,
to her own astonishment.

"Stay by me, Miss Sharston: I have much to say to you," remarked the
widow.

Accordingly Florence and Trevor, Florence well knowing that Kitty had
not been allowed to come with her, started on their tour of
investigation alone. They found the sea-anemones and chatted about them,
and Trevor asked Florence if she would like to begin to make a
collection, and Florence began by saying "Yes," but finally refused the
tempting offer which Trevor made to help her in the matter.

"I am going to London in a few days," she said.

"To London?" he asked; "now, in this broiling weather?"

"Yes; why not? Don't you like London in August?"

"I never care for London at any time--in August it is particularly
detestable," was his reply. "We are going to stay here for a day or two.
I think you know Miss Keys; she told me that you were an old friend of
hers."

"She was at the same school with me years ago," said Florence, flushing
as she spoke. "Oh, do look at that beauty in the corner: a kind of dark
electric-blue. What a wonderful creature! Oh, and that rose-coloured one
near it! Sea-anemones are like great tropical flowers."

Meanwhile Mrs. Aylmer was consulting with Kitty.

"Shall we or shall we not ask him to supper?" she said. "What do you
think?"

"I am sure I don't know," said Kitty. She looked at her companion with
those innocent, wide-open grey eyes, which were her greatest charm.

"He has quite taken to Florence; don't you see for yourself?"

"Oh, yes; everyone takes to her," replied Kitty, with enthusiasm; "she
is so nice and honest and downright."

Mrs. Aylmer sighed.

"She has had her troubles, poor child; but in the end things may come
round in a most wonderful way. Do you know, I like him very much?"

"Like who?" asked Kitty.

"Really, Miss Sharston, you are a little silly--Mr. Trevor, Mr. Maurice
Trevor, the adopted son of my wealthy sister-in-law, Susan Aylmer."

"Oh, yes," said Kitty; "I forgot that you were talking about him."

"I was asking you, my dear, if you thought we might invite him to join
us at supper."

"Why not?" said Kitty.

"Well, Sukey's temper grows worse and worse. We were going to have a
very small supper, not what you could put a man down to; but if he were
coming you and I might just whip round to the shrimp-shop and get a
lobster: lobster with a nice salad is what young men delight in; and we
might get a bottle of claret at the grocer's. If you would carry the
lobster, I would bring the claret. It is an enormous expense to go to,
but if in the end----"

"Oh, dear," said Kitty, rising. She looked at Mrs. Aylmer, and the
colour rose in a delicate wave all over her pretty face. "Oh, I would
not," she said; "I don't think Florence would like it--I am certain she
would not. Oh, you know her: she will be rude; don't do it, please,
please don't."

But if there was one person more determined than another to have her own
way, it was the little Mummy. She had only vaguely considered the
possibility of asking Mr. Trevor to partake of their humble meal when
she first spoke of it; now that Kitty opposed it she made up her mind
that by hook or crook she would convey him to their house. What a
victory it would be! Susan Aylmer, her rich sister-in-law, waiting and
wondering why her handsome and fascinating young protégé did not appear:
Bertha Keys finding her meal very dull without him: both these ladies
talking about him, and in their hearts of hearts longing for his
society: and he all the time in the tiny cottage, partaking of the
humble fare of Mrs. Aylmer the less, with the naughty Florence close to
his side, and the fascinating Kitty not a yard off. Oh, it was worth a
struggle!

Mrs. Aylmer rose to her feet. A good stiff wind was beginning to blow,
and she staggered for a moment as it caught her stout little person.
Then she raised her voice: "Florence!"

"Yes, mother," said Florence, turning. She was a hundred yards away now,
and Trevor was talking in a more fascinating way than ever about
sea-anemones and their beauties.

"If Mr. Trevor would come back to supper with us, we should be much
pleased to see him. I will expect you, dear, to bring him in, when you
have done your little preambulation. So pleased if you will join us, Mr.
Trevor."

All these words were shrieked on the sea-breeze. Florence made a reply
which did not quite reach her mother's ears. Mrs. Aylmer shouted once
more, and then, seizing Kitty's hand, turned in the direction of the
little town.

"Now for the shrimp-woman and the grocer's shop," she said; "we must be
as quick as possible. Sukey will be in a flurry: but never mind: it is
worth the effort."

Poor Kitty had never felt more uncomfortable. Really there were times
when the little Mummy was almost unendurable. A lobster was chosen,
quite a nice expensive one; Kitty was desired to go to the nearest
greengrocer's shop, in order to secure the crispest lettuce and half a
pound of tomatoes; the bottle of claret was also bought, and, laden
with these spoils, the girl and the elder lady re-entered the tiny
cottage.

"Now then, Sukey," called out Mrs. Aylmer, "brisk is the word. I have
caught the most charming young man you ever heard of, and he is coming
to supper with us."

Sukey stared at her mistress.

"What folly are you up to now, ma'am?" she asked.

"No folly at all, my dear Sukey. Here's six-pence for you; don't say
anything about it. Make the salad as only you know how, and trim the
lobster. I was considerate, Sukey, and I got things that really will not
give you trouble. Kitty, my dear sweet little girl, help me to arrange
the table. It will be supper in a bower--quite romantic. The young man
will enjoy it; I am certain he will. Dear Flo! what it is to have a
mother like me to look after her and see that she does not waste her
opportunities."

"But," said Kitty, changing colour as she spoke, "do you really
mean----"

"I mean that mum's the word at present," was Mrs. Aylmer's mysterious
remark. "Help me, Kitty Sharston, like a good girl, and for goodness
sake don't make yourself look too pretty to-night. I don't want him to
turn his attention to you, I may as well say so frankly."

Kitty earnestly longed for the moment when she should leave Mrs.
Aylmer's cottage.

The supper was prepared, however; everything was arranged; and then the
two ladies stood by the window watching for the return of the truants,
as Mrs. Aylmer was now pleased to call Florence and Mr. Trevor.

Presently she saw her daughter coming up the somewhat steep path alone.

"Flo, Flo, child, where is he? is he coming?"

"Oh, no, mother," said Florence.

"Did you give him my invitation?"

"I told him he was not to accept it," said Florence. "Oh, dear me,
mother, don't be silly. But, I say, what a nice lobster, and I am so
hungry."




CHAPTER VII.

THE CHAINS BEGIN TO FRET.


Meanwhile Trevor went slowly back to the hotel. He had enjoyed his talk
with Florence; he liked her brusque way, she did not flatter him, and
she was, he considered, a particularly attractive-looking girl. In Mrs.
Aylmer's society he was made a great deal of and fussed over, and when
that happens to a young man he always enjoys the sort of girl who snubs
him by way of contrast. He thought Mrs. Aylmer the less one of the most
extraordinary women he had ever met; but as he liked Florence, and was
in the mood for a bit of an adventure, he would gladly have accepted her
mother's invitation to supper if she had not tabooed it.

"You are not to come," said Florence, looking at him with her wide-open
frank dark eyes; "mother is the soul of hospitality, but we are very
poor: we have nothing proper to give you for supper, and I for one would
much rather you did not come."

"I do not in the least mind what I eat," he said, in a somewhat pleading
tone, and he looked full at Florence with his blue eyes.

"Nevertheless, you are not to come; it is only my mother's way: she
always goes on like that with strangers. I never allow people to accept
her invitations."

After this there was nothing more to be said, and Florence and Trevor
bade each other a very friendly good-bye.

When Trevor reached the "Crown and Garter" he found that Mrs. Aylmer and
Miss Keys were already at dinner. They had both wondered where he was,
and Bertha Keys had been a little anxious and a little uneasy. When he
came in, the faces of both ladies brightened.

"What makes you so late?" said Mrs. Aylmer, looking up at him.

"I had a bit of an adventure," he said. He drew his chair to the table.
"There was a slight chance of my not coming in to supper at all," he
continued. "I met that charming little lady who visited you to-day, Mrs.
Aylmer."

"What?" said Mrs. Aylmer, dropping her knife and fork.

"I met her again, and she introduced me to her daughter and to another
young lady who is staying with them. By the way, they are your
relations, so the little lady told me, and she was very hospitable, and
invited me to supper, and I should have been very glad to go if the
young lady had not told me that I must not accept her mother's
invitation."

Now, these remarks were anything but agreeable to Mrs. Aylmer, and still
less did they suit Bertha Keys. Neither lady said anything, however, at
the present moment, but each glanced at the other. After a time, Mrs.
Aylmer stretched out her hand and touched Trevor on his sleeve.

"I am sorry you have made the acquaintance of Miss Florence Aylmer," she
said.

"Sorry? Why?" he asked. "I consider her a remarkably nice girl."

"I regret to have to inform you that she is anything but a nice girl. I
will tell you about her another time. It is quite contrary to my wishes
that you should have anything to do with her: you understand?"

Trevor flushed. He had a way of looking annoyed at times, and he looked
annoyed now. His silken chains sometimes fretted him a great deal. He
often wondered whether he had done right in allowing himself to become
Mrs. Aylmer's adopted son. Bertha, however, gave him a warning glance,
and he said nothing.

Presently dinner was over, and Bertha beckoned to him to join her on the
balcony.

"Shall we go out on the sands?" she said. "I have something I want to
say to you."

"But Mrs. Aylmer has something to say to me also--something about that
particularly nice girl, Miss Florence Aylmer."

"She will not say it to you to-night; she has a headache, and I
persuaded her to go early to bed. I quite sympathise with you, too,
about Florence; she is one of my greatest friends."

Trevor gave Bertha a grateful glance.

"I am so glad you like her," he said. "I was never yet mistaken about
anyone, and I took to her frank ways. She looks like the sort of girl
who will never deceive you."

Bertha gave a peculiar smile, which vanished almost as soon as it
visited her face.

"Shall we meet, say, in twenty minutes," she said, "just by the pier? I
must see Mrs. Aylmer to bed; but I can join you then."

"Very well," he answered.

Bertha left the balcony, and Trevor, lighting a cigar, tried to soothe
his somewhat ruffled feelings. He had never liked Mrs. Aylmer less than
he did at that moment.

"It is horrid when a woman runs down a girl," he said to himself; "such
bad form, and, as to this girl, it is impossible Mrs. Aylmer can know
anything against her."

Presently he looked at his watch, and prepared to keep his appointment
with Bertha. He liked Bertha Keys very much; she was always jolly and
good-tempered, and she often tried to smooth over matters when there was
any little difference between himself and Mrs. Aylmer. When he reached
the pier he found her waiting for him. It was a moonlight night, and the
young couple began to pace up and down.

"What is it?" he said at last. "Have you anything special to say?"

"I know you are in a bad humour, and I am not surprised," she said.

"Listen, Miss Keys," said Trevor. He dropped his cigar, and turned and
faced her. "I often feel that I cannot stand this sort of thing much
longer: it is like being in chains. I would much rather talk the matter
out with Mrs. Aylmer, tell her I am very much obliged to her for her
kind intentions with regard to me, but that I would sooner carve out my
own career in life and be indebted to no one."

"And how silly that would be!" said Bertha. "But what do you want Mrs.
Aylmer to do?"

"To let me go. I feel like a captive in her train; it is not manly. I
never felt more annoyed than when she spoke to me as she did this
evening. It is horrid when a woman abuses a girl--such bad taste."

"You know how peculiar she is," said Bertha; "but you suit her better
than anyone I know. You want her to give you money to allow you to live
in town. I am sure I can manage it. I quite understand that you must
hate being tied to her apron-strings."

"It is detestable," said the young man; "and if it were not for my own
mother, who seems so happy about me, and so grateful to Mrs. Aylmer, I
should break with her to-morrow."

"I quite sympathise with you," said Bertha. "You must have money, and
you must go to town. You want to read for the Bar: I will see that it is
arranged. Mrs. Aylmer is rich, but not rich enough for you to live all
your life in idleness. It would break her heart now if you deserted her:
she has gone through much."

"What do you mean?"

"I cannot tell you."

"Why does she dislike Miss Florence Aylmer?"

"I would rather not say."

"But she will tell me herself."

"I shall beg of her not to do so."

"By the way," said Trevor, after a pause, "is this girl Mrs. Aylmer's
niece?"

"She is her niece by marriage. Mrs. Aylmer's husband was Florence
Aylmer's uncle."

"Then in the name of all that is just," cried Trevor impetuously, "why
should I have the fortune which is really meant for Florence Aylmer?
Oh, this is unendurable," he cried; "I cannot stand it. I will tell Mrs.
Aylmer to-morrow that I am obliged to her, but that I will not occupy a
false position."

"You will do fearful harm if you make such a remark," said Bertha.
"Something very sad happened a few years ago, something which I cannot
tell you, but----" Bertha's lips quivered and her face was very pale.

"What is it? Having told me so much, you must go on."

Bertha was silent for a moment.

"What has Miss Aylmer done? If there is a frank, open-hearted,
nice-looking girl, she is one. I do not care so much for her mother, but
Miss Aylmer herself--I defy anyone to throw a stone at her."

"I own that she is a nice girl, a very nice girl; but once, once--well,
anyhow, she managed to offend Mrs. Aylmer. You must not ask me for
particulars. I want you to be most careful; that is why I have brought
you out here to-night. I want you to be most careful to avoid the
subject with Mrs. Aylmer. Florence offended her, and she has resolved
never to see her and never to speak to her again. She is annoyed at your
having made her acquaintance, and I doubt not we shall leave Dawlish
to-morrow on that account. Be satisfied that Florence only did what
perhaps another girl equally tempted would have done, but it was----"

"It was what? The worst thing you can do is to throw out innuendoes
about a girl. What did she do?"

"She was not quite straight, if you must know--not quite straight about
a prize which was offered in the school where she was being educated."

"She told me that you were a teacher in the same school."

"Did she?" said Bertha. Her face turned pale, but her companion was not
looking at her at that moment. "Ah, yes, poor girl: that is how I happen
to know all about it. It was hushed up at the time, and of course
Florence has quite retrieved her character. It was nothing whatever but
what a girl tempted as she was would do, but it settled her as far as
Mrs. Aylmer was concerned, and if you do not wish to bring fresh trouble
upon the niece you will avoid the subject with her aunt. That is what I
wished to say to you."

"How can I avoid it? It is quite impossible for me to be long with Mrs.
Aylmer and prevent her speaking about what she has made up her mind to
tell me."

"I have been thinking of that," said Bertha; "the very best thing you
can do is to go up to London to-morrow morning."

"I go to London to-morrow?"

"Yes; go away for the present. I will tell her that you have had sudden
news of your mother: that she wants to see you; or you can leave her a
note to that effect."

"But it would not be true." Trevor darted a keen glance at his
companion.

Bertha coloured again.

"It is difficult to manage with people who are as quixotically straight
as you are," she said, after a pause; "I want you to keep away for your
own sake. If what I have suggested does not please you, think of
something else."

"I will tell her that I wish for a change: that is true enough," he
answered; "but how will that help me? When I come back, she will tell me
the thing you do not wish me to hear about Miss Aylmer."

"Oh, I never said I did not wish you to hear it: I think it would be
better for your peace of mind not to hear it: that is all. I have said
that it was a little shady: that it happened years ago: that Florence
has quite retrieved her character."

Trevor stamped his foot impatiently.

"I will not go away to-morrow," he said, after a pause. "I should like
to see Miss Florence Aylmer again. I will ask her to tell me frankly
what occurred some years ago."

"You will?" said Bertha, and now her face looked frightened.

"Yes," he answered, looking full into her eyes; "I will. She is
perfectly honest. She can excuse herself if necessary. Anyhow, she shall
have the chance of telling her own story in her own way."




CHAPTER VIII.

BERTHA'S QUANDARY.


It was by no means the first time that Bertha Keys had found herself in
a quandary. She was very clever at getting out of these tight corners:
of extricating herself from these, to all appearances, impossible
situations; but never had she been more absolutely nonplussed than at
the present moment.

When she and Florence had both left Cherry Court School her prospects
had been dark. She had been dismissed without any hope of a character,
and had, as it were, to begin the world over again. Then chance put Mrs.
Aylmer the great in her way. Mrs. Aylmer wanted a companion, a clever
companion, and Bertha was just the girl for the purpose. She obtained
the situation, managing to get references through a friend, taking care
to avoid the subject of Cherry Court School, and never alluding to
Florence Aylmer.

Mrs. Aylmer was very sore and angry just then. She disliked Florence
immensely for having disgraced her; she did not wish the name of
Florence Aylmer to be breathed in her presence; she was looking around
anxiously for an heir. With Bertha Keys she felt soothed, sympathised
with, restored to a good deal of her former calm. By slow degrees she
told Bertha almost all of her history; in particular she consulted with
Bertha on the subject of an heir.

"I must leave my money to someone," she said; "I hate the idea of giving
it to charities. Charity, in my opinion, begins at home."

"That is does, truly," answered Bertha, her queer green-grey eyes fixed
on her employer's face.

"And Florence Aylmer being completely out of the question," continued
Mrs. Aylmer, "and Florence's mother being about the biggest fool that
ever breathed, I must look in another direction for my heir."

"Why not adopt a boy?" said Bertha, on one of these occasions.

"Adopt a boy? a boy?"

"Well, a young man," said Bertha, colouring.

"What a very extraordinary idea!" was Mrs. Aylmer's response. She looked
withering things at Bertha, and this young lady found herself more or
less in disgrace for the next few days. Nevertheless, the idea took
root. Mrs. Aylmer, having found girls failures, began to think that all
that was desirable might be encompassed in the person of a boy.

"It would be nice to have a boy about the house. They were cheerful
creatures. As they grew to be men, they were more or less a protection.
Boys, of course, had none of the small ways of girls. A deceitful boy
was a creature almost unknown."

So Mrs. Aylmer thought, and she began to look around for a suitable boy
to adopt and leave her money to. No sooner did she seriously contemplate
this idea than the opportunity to adopt a very special boy occurred to
her. She had an old friend, a great friend, a woman whom as a girl she
had really loved. This woman was now a widow: she was a certain Mrs.
Trevor. She had married an army man, who had died gloriously in battle.
He had won his V. C. before he departed to a better world. His widow had
a small pension, and one son. Mrs. Trevor happened just about this very
time to write to Mrs. Aylmer. She told her of her great and abiding
sorrow, and spoke with the deepest delight and admiration of her boy.

"Send Maurice to spend a week with me," was Mrs. Aylmer's telegraphic
reply to this epistle.

In some astonishment, Mrs. Trevor packed up her boy's things--he was a
lad of eighteen at this time--and sent him off to visit Mrs. Aylmer in
her beautiful country place.

Maurice Trevor was frank, innocent, open as the day. He pleased the
widow because he did not try to please her in the least. He liked Bertha
Keys because all apparently amiable people suited him, and Bertha
certainly did look distinctly amiable. Soon she got into his confidence,
and he talked of his future. He wanted to go into the army, as his
father had done before him. Bertha suggested that he should tell his
desire to Mrs. Aylmer. This Maurice Trevor would not think of doing. He
spent a week, a fortnight, a month with the widow, and went back to his
mother, having secured a great deal more than he bargained for in the
course of his visit.

Mrs. Aylmer now wrote to Mrs. Trevor, said that she liked Maurice very
much, that she had no heir to leave her money to, and that if Maurice
really turned out quite to her satisfaction she would make him her
future heir. He must live with her during the holidays; he must give up
his mother's society, except for a very short time in the year; he must
be thoroughly well educated; must, on no account, enter the army; and
must have a University education.

These terms, generous in themselves, were eagerly accepted by the all
but penniless widow. She had some difficulty, however, in persuading
young Trevor to, as he expressed it, sell his independence. In the end
her wishes prevailed. He went to Trinity College, Cambridge, took
honours there, and now at four-and-twenty years of age was to a certain
extent his own master, and yet was more tied and fettered than almost
any other young man he knew. To tell the truth, he hated his own
position. Mrs. Aylmer was capricious; she considered that he owed her
undying gratitude: that he should only do what she wished. He had little
or no control of her affairs, Bertha Keys being the true mistress.

At the time when this story opens he felt that he could scarcely stand
his silken fetters any longer.

       *       *       *       *       *

Bertha, as she stood now in the moonlit window of her little room at the
"Crown and Garter," thought over Maurice Trevor, his future prospects,
and his past life. She also thought about Florence.

"From the way he spoke to-night," thought this astute young woman,
"very, very little would make him fall in love with Florence. Now, that
is quite the very last thing to be desired. It would be a sort of
revenge on Mrs. Aylmer, but it cannot be permitted for a single moment.
They must not meet again. There are several reasons against that. In the
first place, it would not suit my convenience. I mean to inherit Mrs.
Aylmer's property, either as the heiress in my own person or as the wife
of Maurice Trevor. It is true that I am older than he, but I have three
times his sense: I can manage him if another girl does not interfere. He
must leave here immediately. I must make some excuse. His mother is not
quite so quixotic as he is; I must manage things through her. One thing,
at least, I am resolved on: he must not hear the story of Florence--at
least, not through Florence herself: he must not meet her again, and
Mrs. Aylmer must not tell him the story of what occurred at Cherry Court
School."

Bertha thought a very long time.

"If he really falls in love with Florence, then he must no longer be
Mrs. Aylmer's heir," she said to herself; "but he shall not meet her. I
like him: I want him for myself; when the time comes, I will marry him.
He shall not marry another woman and inherit all Mrs. Aylmer's
property."

Bertha stayed up for some time. It was between two and three in the
morning when at last she laid her head on her pillow. She had gone
through an exciting and even a dangerous day, but that did not prevent
her sleeping soundly. Early in the morning, however, she rose. She was
dressed before seven o'clock, and waited anxiously for eight o'clock,
the time when she might send off a telegram. She procured a telegraph
form and carefully filled it in. These were the words she wrote:--

     "Make some excuse to summon Maurice to London at once. Must go.
     Will explain to you when writing. Do not let Maurice know that
     I have telegraphed.--BERTHA KEYS."

This telegram was addressed to Mrs. Trevor, Rose View, 10 St. Martin's
Terrace, Hampstead. Punctually as the clock struck eight, Bertha was
standing at the telegraph-office; it was so early that she knew the line
would be more or less clear. She sent off her telegram and returned with
a good appetite to breakfast.

At about ten o'clock a telegram arrived for Trevor. He was eating his
breakfast in his usual lazy fashion, and was inwardly wondering if he
could see Florence again: if he could lead up to the subject of the
school where she had suffered disgrace: and if she herself would explain
to him that which was making him far more uncomfortable than the
occasion warranted.

"A telegram for you," said Bertha, handing him the little yellow
envelope. He opened it, and his face turned pale.

"How queer!" he said; "this is from mother; she wants me to come up
to-day: says it is urgent. What shall I do, Miss Keys?"

"Why, go, of course," said Bertha; "here is Mrs. Aylmer. Mrs. Aylmer,
Mr. Trevor has had an urgent telegram from his mother. She wants to see
him."

Mrs. Aylmer looked annoyed.

"I wanted you to come with me this morning, Maurice," she said, "on an
expedition to Warren's Cove. I thought you might drive me in a pony
carriage."

"I can do that," said Bertha, in her brisk way.

"Of course you can, my dear, if Maurice feels that he really must
go.--When can you be back again?"

"I will try and return to-morrow," said Trevor; "but, of course, it
depends on what really ails mother. From the tone of her telegram I
should say she was ill."

"And I should say nothing of the kind," answered Mrs. Aylmer shortly;
"she is one of those faddists who are always imagining that they
require----"

"Hush!" said Trevor, in a stern voice.

"What do you mean by 'hush?'"

"I would rather you did not say anything against my mother, please."

He spoke with such harshness and such determination that Bertha trembled
in her shoes, but Mrs. Aylmer gave him a glance of admiration.

"You are a good boy to stand up for her," she said; "yes, go, by all
means: only return to me, your second mother, as soon as you can."

"Thanks," he answered, softening a little; but the gloomy look did not
leave his face.

"I will walk with you to the station, Mr. Trevor," said Bertha, who
thought that he required soothing, and felt that she was quite capable
of administering consolation.

"Thanks," he replied; "I shall ask the station porter to call for my
portmanteau."




CHAPTER IX.

A TEMPTING OFFER.


By the next train Bertha saw Maurice Trevor off to London. When she had
done so, she went slowly in the direction of the sands. She had induced
Mrs. Aylmer to put off her drive until the afternoon. Bertha was now
very anxious to see Florence.

In all probability Florence would be on the beach: she would know that
Bertha was coming to get the answer which Florence had not given her the
day before. She walked slowly, holding her parasol up to shade her face
from the sun, and thinking her thoughts.

"At any rate, Maurice Trevor is safe for the day," she said to herself;
"and before the evening has passed, I shall have Florence's promise that
she will not betray me to Mrs. Aylmer. Mrs. Aylmer is just the sort of
person, if Florence made the worst of things, to turn against me and
take Florence back again. Then indeed, she would be avenged, and I
should be routed. Such a state of things cannot be."

Bertha thought quickly. Her thoughts turned to a little account which
was weekly swelling in importance, and which stood to her credit in the
Post Office Savings Bank. She was intensely fond of money, but she knew
that the time had come when it might be necessary to sacrifice some of
her savings. Presently she gave a well-assumed start; said: "Hullo, Flo,
is that you?" and went to meet Florence Aylmer.

Florence's face was quite pale, and her eyes were red as if she had been
crying.

"Goodness!" said Bertha; "what does this mean? Have you had any domestic
calamity since I saw you last?"

"No, not any except what you are making," replied Florence. "I wish you
would go away, Bertha: I hate to see you again. I wish you would leave
me in peace."

"Well, darling, we return to Aylmer's Court to-morrow, so you will not
be long worried by us. I have just been seeing that nice young fellow,
Maurice Trevor, off to town."

"Indeed," answered Florence.

"Don't you like him extremely?" continued Bertha, giving her companion a
quick glance.

"I scarcely know him," replied Florence.

"But you do just know him. How did you become acquainted with him?"

"My mother introduced him."

"Ah! just like the little widow," said Bertha, in a thoughtful voice.
"Well, Flo, you and I have a good deal to say to each other. Let us walk
to the other end of the sands, where we shall be alone."

Florence hesitated. For a moment she looked as if she were going to
refuse; then she said, in an almost sulky tone: "Very well." They turned
in that direction and walked slowly. At last they reached the spot where
Mrs. Aylmer had discovered Kitty and Florence the day before.

"It was here I first saw him," thought Florence Aylmer to herself.
"What a true, good expression he had in his blue eyes. How upright he
looked! How different from Bertha! Oh, what a miserable wretched girl I
am! Why do I not tell Bertha that I do not fear her? Why should I put
myself in her power?"

At last they reached the rocks.

"It is nice here, and quite romantic," said Bertha; "we can come to our
little arrangement. You have made up your mind, of course, Florence,
that you will not speak to Mrs. Aylmer of what you know about me?"

"I do not see why I should keep your secret for you," said Florence; "I
do not particularly want to injure you, much as you injured me in the
past; but at the same time why should I make a promise about it? The
time may come when it will be to my benefit to tell Mrs. Aylmer what I
know."

"At the present moment she would not speak to you. She hates you as she
hates no one else in the world. Your very name is as a red rag to her.
If I want to rouse her worst passions, I have but to allude to you. Even
if you told her, she would not believe a word against me."

"I am not so sure of that. Mrs. Aylmer may be forced to listen to me,
and if you rouse my evil feelings I may tell her just to spite you,
Bertha."

"But you will not," said Bertha. "You want money badly. You would like
to be independent."

"That is quite true."

"You have had a fairly good education and you want to earn your own
living?"

"I mean to earn it."

"But you will require a little money until you do. Now, look here,
Florence: I don't want to injure you. I know I did long ago; I did it
for my own benefit. I was cast penniless on the world, and I was forced
to invent all kinds of subterfuges to make my way. I pity girls who are
placed as I was placed. I have now managed to get into a comfortable
nest. As I said before, I am in your nest. It suits me, and I do not
mean to go out of it; but I pity you, and I should like to help you.
Will you borrow a little money from me?"

"Borrow money from you? No, no," said Florence; but she trembled as she
said the words.

"I can quite conveniently lend you fifty pounds," continued Bertha,
gazing as she spoke across the summer sea. "It is not much, but it is
something. With fifty pounds in your pocket you can go, say to London or
to any other large town and advertise what you are worth. You have, I
presume, something to sell: some knowledge, for instance, which you can
impart to others; or perhaps you have a talent for writing. Don't you
remember our wonderful essay?"

"Don't!" said Florence; "don't!" She covered her face with her hands;
the crimson colour had flooded her face.

Bertha gave a queer smile.

"Now, I could earn money by writing essays," she said; "very smart
essays they would be, and I could earn money by writing stories.
Suppose, suppose I write stories still, and send them to you, and you
publish them as your own--how would that do? Why should you not? I like
writing stories, and I do not want money, and you could polish them up
if you liked and sell them as your own. That is an excellent idea. Will
you do it? I am quite agreeable. I will furnish you with a short story,
say, once a fortnight, or once a month. Will you take one with you and
try to sell it as your own? I can do it in the evenings, and you shall
have it. Don't you think that I am paying you well, now, to keep
silence? I am offering you an honourable livelihood, and in the meantime
there is the fifty pounds: you may as well have it; it will keep you
until the money for the stories comes in, and you can pay me back when
you like. I dare not appear before the world as a writer, for Mrs.
Aylmer is hard to please, and she would not like me to write or to do
anything but devote my time to her; but there are hours at night when
she goes to bed which I can devote to your service. Now, what do you
say? It seems to me to be a very good offer."

"It is a tempting offer, certainly," said Florence; "but I never thought
of writing. I have no particular taste for it."

"Well, think it over," said Bertha, rising as she spoke, "and in the
meantime I will send you the money this evening."

"Oh, I cannot take it; please don't."

"I will send it to you," said Bertha, in a gay voice; "it is quite
arranged. Good-bye, dear; I wish you success. When you are a great
writer we can cast up accounts and see on which side the balance lies.
You quite understand? I have a gift in that way which I think can be
turned to account. You will agree to do what I wish, will you not,
Florence?"

"It is all horrible! I do not know what to say," answered Florence.

"I see in your eyes that you mean to accept; you cannot help yourself.
You cannot possibly starve, and you will find when you go to London that
the posts of teachers and secretaries are overfull; but the writer of
clever short stories can always find a market for his or her wares."

Florence rose to her feet.

"I don't like it," she said; "I am thoroughly miserable. I wish there
were some other way; but there is not."

"Well, try for yourself before you think of the story part; but, anyhow,
you must take the fifty pounds--you really must."

Bertha rose, touched Florence lightly on her cheek, and before the other
girl could say a word turned and left her. She walked across the beach
now with a dancing step.

"I have scored a point," she said to herself; "Florence won't dare to
tell. She is as certain to accept that fifty pounds as she is to eat her
breakfast to-morrow morning. After all, I am very generous to her; but I
see my way, I think, to win Maurice Trevor. I see my way to prevent
these two becoming friends, and at the worst, if Maurice does meet
Florence again, and does fall in love with her, I shall take good care
that he is not Mrs. Aylmer's heir. It is but to alter her will and heigh
presto! the riches are mine!"




CHAPTER X.

THE LITTLE MUMMY'S CURIOSITY.


Florence did not return to the cottage until past the usual dinner hour.
When she did so, her mother, who appeared to be very much excited, met
her in the porch.

"There has come a little parcel for you," she said, "from the 'Crown and
Garter Hotel.' I wish you would open it; I am quite curious: it is
sealed. The messenger did not want to leave it when I told him that you
were out. He said it had been given him by Miss Keys to bring to you,
and that he was to give it into your hands. I wonder what it can be?"

"Oh, it is nothing of importance," said Florence, turning quite pale.
"Give it to me, please, mother."

"Nothing of importance, indeed!" said the little widow, tossing her
head; "it seemed to me very much of importance. The messenger was quite
fussed when he found you were not here: he said perhaps he had better
take it back, but I assured him that I did not lose things when they
were addressed to my only daughter, and that he might safely trust me to
put the parcel into your hands. He was one of the waiters from the
hotel--a very stylish-looking person indeed. What riches and what luck
follow some people! Why should Miss Keys have everything and my poor
girl be left out in the cold?"

"Oh, mother, I would not change with Bertha Keys for anything," said
Florence; "but give me the parcel, please."

"Here it is; you'll open it and assuage my curiosity."

"It is only a letter from Bertha; I quite know what it contains," said
Florence. She got red first and then pale. Her mother's bright beady
eyes were fixed on her face.

"Well, but can't you open it and tell me about it? You know how
curiosity does eat into me: I can't sleep, I can't enjoy my food when
there's a secret surrounding me. What's in the letter, Flo? If you are
too tired to read it just now, I will open it for you."

"No, thank you, mother; I know what it contains: it is a message from
Miss Keys. I met her on the sands this morning and--and she said she
would write."

With a wild fluttering at her heart, Florence popped the sealed packet
into her pocket and sat down near the door.

"I am thoroughly tired," she said, "and my head aches."

Mrs. Aylmer appeared to be annoyed and disappointed.

"I do declare," she exclaimed, "I don't think any of the girls of the
present day have health worth mentioning. There's Kitty: she's been
fretting and fuming because you went out without her; she's a nice,
refined sort of little thing, but she has a headache, and now after
preparing the very nicest little dinner out of the scraps which that
young man ought to have eaten last night, you never came in to partake.
I had lobster salad of the most recherché description, and you were not
present, while Kitty could scarcely eat because of her headache, so I
had to do justice to the mayonnaise myself; and now you come in looking
washed out and wretched. I do declare," she concluded, "things are more
comfortable for me when Sukey and I are alone."

"Well, mother, I shall be leaving you shortly. I shall probably be going
to London to-morrow or next day."

"So soon, after arranging to spend the holidays with me?"

"I have changed my mind about that now," said Florence restlessly; "I
must work and begin to earn money."

"I have not a penny to give you to start with, you understand that."

"I have a little money," said Florence, and her face coloured and then
turned pale: "I think I can manage."

"I wonder how," thought the widow. She glanced at Florence, but did not
speak: a shrewd expression came into her eyes and she pursed up her
lips.

"I will go and coax Sukey to make a cup of coffee for you," she said:
"there is nothing like really strong coffee as a cure for a headache,
and you can have some bread-and-butter. I am sorry to say I can afford
nothing else for your dinner to-day."

"Oh, coffee and bread-and-butter will do splendidly," said Florence.

Her mother left the room. A moment later Kitty came down.

"Flo," she said, "I have just received a letter from father; he will
reach Southampton to-morrow and I am to go and meet him there. Won't you
come too?"

"Oh, may I go with you?" said Florence, sensibly brightening.

"May you? Of course you may; it will be so splendid to see him again,
and you must constantly stay with me--constantly, Flo dear. Oh, I am so
happy, so happy!"




CHAPTER XI.

FLORENCE'S GOOD ANGEL.


"What is the matter, Flo?" said Kitty. The two girls were in their tiny
bed-room. They were to leave Dawlish the next morning, as Kitty had
persuaded Florence to go with her to Southampton in order that they
might both be present when Colonel Sharston once more set foot on his
native land.

Kitty was very much excited, but she was too gentle and noble a girl,
too absolutely unselfish, not to notice that her companion was distrait
and anxious. No one could be much more worried than poor Florence was
that evening.

All during the long day which had followed she had kept saying to
herself: "Shall I or shall I not? Shall I take that fifty pounds from
Bertha and put myself in her power for ever, or shall I return her the
money, fight my way to fortune with the weapons which God has given me,
and not descend to her temptations?"

One moment Florence had almost made up her mind to choose the right
path, but the next instant the thought of the struggle which lay before
her and the terrible adventures which any girl must meet who fights the
world without money rose to weaken her resolve. It would be so easy to
accept that fifty pounds, and Bertha would scarcely dare to ask her to
repay it. She would at least have plenty of time to collect the money
bit by bit, and so return it to Bertha; but Florence knew well that if
once she took that money she would lower herself forever in the moral
scale.

"I should sink again to that sort of awful thing I was just before my
great temptation at Cherry Court School," she thought. "I have managed
to rise above that level now, and am I going to sink again?"

So she wavered all day long, the pendulum of her mind now swinging to
one side, now to another. The result was that she felt quite worn out
when night came.

"What is it?" said Kitty. "What is worrying you?"

"Oh, never mind," answered Florence. The tears rose to her eyes, she
pressed her hands for a moment to her face, then she said abruptly:
"Don't ask me."

"I will ask you. I have seen all day that you are wretched; you must
tell me what has gone wrong with you."

"I am tempted, that is all," said Florence.

"Then do not yield to the temptation," was Kitty's answer; "if it is
something you would rather not say to me----"

"No, Kitty, I must not tell you, but I am tempted strongly," answered
Florence.

"The only thing to do, however hard the temptation, is not to yield to
it," said Kitty.

Florence looked for a moment at her companion. Kitty, too, had known
what it was to want for money. Kitty had been poor. It is true that,
since the day she took the prize which Florence through deceit had lost,
her kind friend, Sir John Wallis, had never ceased to shower small
benefits upon her. She was not only his pet, but almost his idol. In
his heart of hearts he felt that he would like to adopt her, but he did
not dare even to suggest such a thing, knowing how passionately she was
attached to her father.

Now Colonel Sharston was returning to England, having been appointed to
an excellent home post, and Kitty's money troubles were quite at an end.

"She will want for nothing in the future," thought Florence to herself
as she looked at the graceful figure and bright beautiful face of the
young girl who was standing a short distance away. "She will want for
nothing: she will never know the real heartache of those who have to
earn their daily bread. How can she understand?"

"Why are you looking at me like that, Flo?" said Kitty.

"Oh, I don't know; I don't know. I--sometimes I envy you. You have rich
and powerful friends."

"Then it is money: I thought as much," said Kitty. "Listen to me,
Florence. I am sure I can guess what is troubling you. That dreadful
Bertha wants to bribe you to be silent: she has offered you money."

Florence's face turned quite pale.

"Give it back to her; you shall, you must! I know father will help you
when he comes back. I will speak to him. You must not yield, Flo; you
must not."

Florence stood irresolute.

"It is not too late," said Kitty. "We are both leaving here early in the
morning. Has she sent you any money now?"

"Yes," said Florence. Her voice scarcely rose to a whisper. The word
trembled on her lips.

"Then we will return it to her. You must not take it."

"It is too late: I have taken it."

"It is not too late. What is the time? It is only half-past ten. I am
quite certain that Miss Keys is not in bed yet. Come, Flo, put on your
hat; your mother won't mind. We will take the latchkey and let ourselves
in. We will go to the hotel and return the money."

"Oh, I dare not."

"Then I dare," said Kitty. "You have told me nothing, remember; but I
will not let you sink or yield to this temptation."

Florence colored crimson.

"You have a great power over me," she said; "I feel as if you were my
good angel, and Bertha were my bad."

"Then for heaven's sake, Florence, yield to the entreaties of your good
angel. Come, come; the hotel won't be shut up. Where is the money?"

"In my pocket."

"Then come immediately."

Florence was inspired by Kitty, whose voice was strong, and her face
brave and bright, as befitted one who lived for the right and rejected
the wrong.

"I am glad," she said to herself; "I did not ask her counsel: she has
forced it upon me. She is my good angel."

A moment later the two girls left the cottage. They walked quickly in
the direction of the big hotel. There were lights in many rooms,
servants walking about, and the hall-door was open. They walked up the
steps, and Kitty entered the hall. Florence followed her, pale and
trembling.

"Can I see Miss Keys?" asked Kitty of the hall porter.

"I will enquire if Miss Keys is up still," replied the man. "What name
shall I say?"

"Miss Sharston. I want to see her for a moment about something
important."

"Will you come in, Miss?"

"No; perhaps she would see me here. Say also that Miss Florence Aylmer
is with me."

The man withdrew. A moment later, Bertha, in her evening dress, looking
pretty and excited, ran downstairs.

"What is it? What's the matter?" she said. "Is that you, Florence?
Kitty, what is the matter?"

"We don't want to stay; we don't want you to tell Mrs. Aylmer, and we
don't want to get you into trouble of any sort," said Kitty, speaking
rapidly and drawing Bertha aside as she spoke. "But we want to give you
this back, and to let you know that what you suggested was
impossible--quite impossible."

As she spoke, she thrust the little packet which contained the fifty
pounds into Bertha's hand, and then took Florence's.

"Come, Flo; I think that is all," she said.

Bertha was too stunned to say a word. Before she had recovered from her
astonishment, the two girls had walked down the steps and gone out into
the night.

"What does this mean?" said Bertha to herself. "I don't like it at all,
but, thank goodness, we are leaving here to-morrow. I don't suppose
Florence will really tell on me. I must discover some other way to get
her into my power."

She went slowly back to the sitting-room. Mrs. Aylmer looked up
discontentedly.

"Who called to see you? I didn't know you had any friends in the town,
Bertha?" she said.

"Nor have I, but a couple of young girls who are staying here called to
return me a little packet which I had dropped on the beach to-day and
lost. They found it; my name was on it, and they brought it back to me."

"Oh, indeed; I thought I heard the waiter say that Miss Florence Aylmer
had called."

"You were mistaken, Mrs. Aylmer," replied Bertha, in her calm voice. She
fixed her grey-green eyes on the widow's face, and took up the book
which she had been reading.

"Shall we go on with this, or shall we have a game of two-handed
patience?" she said quietly.

"I will go to bed," said Mrs. Aylmer; "I am tired and cross. After all,
my life is very dull. You didn't manage to amuse me to-day, Bertha; you
were not like your old self; and then I miss Maurice. He has become
almost indispensable to me. I hope he will return to-morrow."

"We shall probably find him before us at Aylmer's Court."

"I shall send him a telegram the first thing to-morrow to ask him to
hurry home," said Mrs. Aylmer. "He is such a pleasant, bright fellow
that life is insupportable without him. You used to be much more amusing
than you are now, Bertha. Is anything the matter?"

"Nothing, my dear friend," said Bertha. She looked full at Mrs. Aylmer,
and tears rose slowly to her eyes. Now, no one could possess a more
pathetic face than Bertha when she pleased. Mrs. Aylmer was not a
good-natured woman, she was not kind-hearted, she was not in any sense
of the word amiable, but she had certain sentiments, and Bertha managed
to arouse them. When she saw tears in her young companion's eyes now,
she laid her hand on her arm.

"What is it, dear? I should be sorry to be cross with you. You are a
very good girl and suit me admirably."

"It was just the fear that I was not quite suiting you that was
troubling me," replied Bertha. "Say that again, kind, dear benefactress,
and you will make me the happiest girl in the world."

"No one ever suited me so well. You are surely not jealous of my
affection for dear Maurice?"

"Oh, no; I love him myself," said Bertha.

Mrs. Aylmer looked grave. She rose slowly.

"Ring for my maid, will you, Bertha? I shall go to bed; I am tired,"
said the great lady.

The maid appeared a moment later, and the two left the room together. As
Mrs. Aylmer slowly undressed, she thought of Bertha's last words: "I
love him myself."

"Nonsense," said Mrs. Aylmer to herself; "she is ten years his senior if
she's a day; nevertheless, I must be careful. She is a clever woman; I
should be sorry to have to do without her, but I often wonder what her
past was. I made very few enquiries with regard to her history. I wanted
someone to be with me at the time, and she took my fancy."

Downstairs Bertha slowly unfastened the little parcel and looked at the
five ten-pound notes which were rolled up within.

"After all, it's just as well that I should have this money by me as
that I should give it to Florence Aylmer," she said to herself. "I must
think of some other way to tempt her, and the money will be useful. I
shall put it back into the post-office and wait awhile. She is certain
to go to London, and equally certain to fail. I can tempt her with some
of my stories. I will manage to get her address. Yes, clever as you
think yourself, Florence, you will be in my power, and before many weeks
are over."




CHAPTER XII.

ALONE IN LONDON.


Florence and Kitty left Dawlish the next day and went to Southampton.
There they met Colonel Sharston, and Florence had the great bliss of
seeing Kitty's intense happiness with her father. They stayed at a hotel
at Southampton for the best part of a week, and then the three went to
London. Kitty and her father were going to Switzerland for a month's
holiday. They begged of Florence to go with them, but nothing would
induce her to accept the invitation.

"I know well that Colonel Sharston even now is far from rich," she said
to herself. "I will not let Kitty feel that I have put myself upon her."

So very firmly she declined the invitation, and one short week after she
had bidden her mother good bye at Dawlish she found herself alone in
London. She had seen Kitty and Colonel Sharston off by the night train
to Dover, and left the great railway-station slowly and sadly.

"Now I have to fight the battle. Shall I fail or shall I succeed?" she
said to herself.

She had taken a bed-room in a large house which was let out in small
rooms. It was one of the first houses that had been let out in flats for
women in London, and Florence considered herself very fortunate in being
able to take up her quarters there. There was a large restaurant
downstairs, where the girls who lived in the house could have their
meals provided at low prices.

Florence's bed-room was fairly neat, but very small and sparsely
furnished. It was an attic room, of course, for she could only afford
the cheapest apartment. She had exactly twenty pounds wherewith to
support herself until fortune's ball rolled her way. She felt confident
enough. She had been well educated; she had taken certain diplomas which
ought to enable her to get a good situation as a teacher; but if there
was one thing which poor Florence disliked it was the thought of
imparting knowledge to others. If she could obtain a secretaryship or
any other post she would certainly not devote her life to teaching.

"It behooves me to be sensible now," she thought; "I must look around me
and see what is the best thing to do."

That evening, after the departure of Kitty and her father, she retired
to her bed-room. She had bought a little tea, sugar, bread, and butter,
and she made herself a small meal. The prices at the restaurant were
very moderate, but Florence made a calculation that she could live for a
little less by buying her own food.

"I will dine at the restaurant," she thought, "and make my own breakfast
and get my own supper. I must make this twenty pounds go as far as
possible, as I do not mean to take the first thing that offers. I am
determined to get a secretaryship if I can."

That evening she wrote a long letter to her mother, and another to Sir
John Wallis. She told Sir John that she was preparing to fight the
battle in London, and gave him her address.

"I am determined," she said in the letter, "not to eat the bread of
dependence. I am firmly resolved to fight my own way, and the money you
have given me is, I consider, a stepping-stone to my fortunes."

She wrote frankly and gratefully, and when Sir John read the letter he
determined to keep her in mind, but not to give her any further help for
the present.

"She has a good deal of character," he said to himself, "although she
did fall so terribly six years ago."

Mrs. Aylmer the less also received a long letter from Florence. It was
written in a very different vein from the one she had sent to Sir John.
Mrs. Aylmer delighted in small news, and Florence tried to satisfy her
to her heart's content. She told her about Kitty's dresses and Kitty's
handsome bonnets and all the different things she was taking for her
foreign tour.

She described her own life with the Sharstons during the few days she
had spent with them at a London hotel, and finally she spoke of her
little attic up in the clouds, and how economical she meant to be, and
how far she would make her money go, and how confident she was that in
the future she could help her mother; and finally she sent the little
Mummy her warmest love, and folded up the letter and put it into its
envelope and posted it.

That letter brought great delight to Mrs. Aylmer. It was indeed what she
considered a red-letter day to her when it arrived, for by parcel post
that very same day there came a large packet for her from Bertha Keys,
sent straight from Aylmer's Court. This packet contained a wardrobe
which set the little widow's ears tingling, and flushed her cheeks,
brightened her eyes, and caused her heart, as she expressed it, to bound
with joy.

"Oh, Sukey, come and look; come and look!" she cried, and Sukey ran from
the kitchen and held up her hands and uttered sundry ejaculations as she
helped her mistress to turn over the tempting array of garments.

"There's the silk dress. What a dear girl!" cried Mrs. Aylmer. "Isn't it
a perfectly splendid dress, Sukey? We must get it cut down, of course;
and the extra breadths will do to renovate it when it gets a little
shabby. I shall give a tea-party, I really will, Sukey, when this dress
is made as good as new. I am quite certain that I can spare you my old
black silk, which you know, Sukey, has been turned four times."

"Thank you, ma'am," said Sukey, in her downright voice. "And what news
is there from Miss Florence, please, ma'am?"

"Oh, there is a letter. I have just had time to read it. It is a very
nice, pleasant letter; but really Florence is the sort of girl who does
not know where her bread is buttered. If she had been anybody else she
would have made up to that young man instead of sending him away when I
invited him in to supper. Florence is a great trial to me in many ways,
Sukey."

"If I was you, ma'am, I'd be thankful to have such a good, nice,
downright young lady like Miss Florence, that I would," said Sukey. "But
don't keep me any longer now, please, ma'am. I'll go and make you a cup
of cocoa: it's quite as much as you want for your dinner to-day. You're
so new-fangled with your bits of clothes."

"That I am," said Mrs. Aylmer the less, as Sukey hurried out of the
room.

Amongst the clothes, lying by itself, was a thick envelope. Mrs. Aylmer
tore it open. There tumbled out of it two golden sovereigns.

"Dear, dear!" thought the widow; "my sister-in-law Susan must be
changing her mind to send me all these lovely clothes and this money;
but stay: the writing is not in Susan's hand--it is doubtless the hand
of that charming young creature, Miss Keys."

Bertha's letter ran as follows:--

    "DEAR MRS. AYLMER--

     "I have collected a few things which I think may prove useful,
     in especial the silk dress which you seemed so much to covet. I
     also send two sovereigns, as I think you will like to have the
     funds to pay the dressmaker for cutting it down to your figure.
     Please use the sovereigns in any way you think best.

     "I have a little request to make of you, dear Mrs. Aylmer. I am
     not likely to come to Dawlish again, but I am much interested
     in your dear daughter Florence, and would be greatly obliged if
     you would favor me with her address in London. Will you send it
     to me by return of post, and will you put it into the addressed
     envelope which I enclose, as I do not want my benefactress Mrs.
     Aylmer to know anything about this matter? If I can help you at
     any time pray command me.

    "Yours sincerely,

    "BERTHA KEYS."

Mrs. Aylmer was so excited by this letter, and by the fact that she
possessed two sovereigns more money than she had done when she awoke
that morning, that she could scarcely drink the cocoa when Sukey
appeared with it.

"Sukey," she exclaimed to that worthy woman, "it never rains but it
pours. We _will_ have a tea-party: such a tea-party it shall be; done in
style, I can assure you. All the neighbours who have ever shown any
kindness to me shall be invited, and we will have the most recherché
little set-out. I will go to Crook's, in the High Street, and order the
cakes and the pastry and the sandwiches, and we will hire enough cups
and saucers and tea-spoons and all the other things which will be
necessary."

"You had better begin by hiring an increased apartment, ma'am," said
Sukey, in a dubious voice. "I don't say nothing against this parlour,
but it ain't to say large. How will you crowd in all the visitors?"

"It is fashionable to have a crowded room," said Mrs. Aylmer, pausing
for a moment to consider this difficulty. "People can stand and sit on
the stairs; they always do in crushes. This is to be a crush and--"

"How will you pay for it, ma'am?"

"I tell you I have money. What do you say to these?"

As Mrs. Aylmer spoke, she held a sovereign between the finger and thumb
of each hand.

Sukey opened her eyes.

"Is it your sister-in-law, ma'am," she said, "that is changing her
mind?"

"No, it is not; I wish it were. I can tell you no more, you curious old
body; but when both our silk dresses are made to fit us we will have the
party."

Sukey went softly out of the room.

"There's something brewing that I don't quite like," she said to
herself. "I wish Miss Florence was at home! I wish the missus hadn't
those queer mean ways! But there, when all's said and done, I have
learned to be fond of her: only she's a very queer sort."

That evening Mrs. Aylmer wrote to Bertha Keys thanking her effusively
for the parcel, telling her that she felt that she owed her lovely silk
dress to her, and further thanking her for the sovereigns. The letter
ran as follows:--

     "I am not proud, my dear; and a little extra money comes in
     extremely handy. I mean to give a party and to show my
     neighbours that I am as good as any of them. It will be a
     return for many little kindnesses on their part, and will
     ensure me a comfortable winter. I shall have so many
     invitations to tea when they see me in that silk dress, and eat
     the excellent cakes, muffins, and crumpets, etc., which I shall
     provide for them, that they won't dare to cut me in the future.

     "If you want dear Florence's address, here it is--12, Prince's
     Mansions, Westminster. She has taken a room in a sort of common
     lodging-house, and I understand from the way she has written to
     me that she is in one of the attics. It seems a sad pity that
     the dear child should pinch herself as she does, and if you,
     Miss Keys, could add to your other virtues that of effecting a
     reconciliation between Florence and her aunt by marriage, you
     would indeed fill my cup of gratitude to the brim.

    "Yours sincerely,

    "MABEL AYLMER."

     "P.S.--If by any chance that most charming young man, Mr.
     Maurice Trevor, should be coming to Dawlish, I shall always be
     pleased to give him a welcome. You might mention to him where
     Florence is staying in London. He seemed to have taken quite a
     fancy to her, but mum's the word, my dear. Mothers will have
     dreams, you know."




CHAPTER XIII.

A WEARY WAIT.


Florence settled down in her attic, and made herself as comfortable as
circumstances would permit.

With all her faults, and she had plenty, Florence had a straightforward
sort of nature. She was alive to temptation, and when occasion rose, as
has been already seen, could and did yield to it. But just now she was
most anxious to eat the bread of independence, not to sink under the
sway of Bertha Keys, to fight her own battle, and to receive her own
well-earned reward.

She made her little attic look as neat and cheery as she could; she was
extremely saving with regard to her food, and set to work at once trying
to obtain employment.

Now, Florence honestly hated the idea of teaching. She was a fairly
clever girl, but no more. She had certain aptitudes and certain talents,
but they did not lie in the teacher's direction. For instance, she was
no musician, and her knowledge of foreign languages was extremely small;
she could read French fairly well, but could not speak it; she had only
a smattering of German, and was not an artist. Her special forte was
English history and literature, and she also had a fair idea of some of
the sciences.

With only these weapons in hand, and the sum of twenty pounds in her
pocket, she was about to fight the world.

She herself knew well, none better, that her weapons were small and her
chance of success not particularly brilliant.

With a good heart, however, she started out from her lodging on the
morning after her arrival in town.

She went to a registry-office in the Strand and entered her name there.
From this office she went to two or three in the West End, and, having
put down her name in each office and answered the questions of the clerk
who took her subscription, returned home.

She had been assured in four different quarters that it was only a
matter of time; that as soon as ever the schools began she would get
employment.

"There is no difficulty," one and all said to her. "You want to get a
teacher's post; you are quite sure to succeed. There will be plenty of
people requiring assistance of all sorts at the schools when the
holidays are over."

"What shall I do in the meantime?" said Florence, who knew that several
weeks of the holidays had yet to run.

"In the meantime," said all these people, "there is nothing to do but
wait."

Florence wondered if she had really left her mother too soon.

"It would have been cheaper to stay on with the little Mummy," she said
to herself; "but, under the circumstances, I could not stay. I dared not
leave myself in Bertha's power. August is nearly through, and the
schools will open again about the 20th of September. By then I shall
surely hear of something. Oh, it is hateful to teach; but there is no
help for it."

Accordingly Florence returned home in as fair spirits as was to be
expected.

She wrote and told her mother what she had done, and resolved to spend
her time studying at the British Museum.

There were not many people yet in London, and she felt strange and
lonely. A great longing for her old school life visited her. She
wondered where her schoolfellows had gone, and what they were doing, and
if they were also as hard pressed as she was.

Her money seemed to her to be already melting away in a remarkably rapid
manner. She wanted new boots and a neat new serge dress, and thought she
might as well get these necessary articles of apparel now, while she was
waiting for a situation, as later; but, although she bought boots at the
very cheapest place she could find, her funds melted still further, and
before September was half through she had spent between five and six
pounds of her small stock of money.

"This will never do," she said to herself; "I shall get so frightened
that I shall become nervous. What am I to do? How am I to eke out the
money till I get a post as teacher?"

It was already time for different mistresses at schools to be applying
to her for her valuable services; but, although she listened with a
beating heart as she heard the postman run up the stairs and deposit
letters in the different hall doors of the various flats, very seldom
indeed did the good man come up as far as her attic, and then it was a
letter from her mother.

She decided to go again to the offices where she had entered her name,
and enquire if there were any post likely to suit her which she could
apply for. She was now received in a totally different spirit.

"It is extremely unlikely, miss," said one and all of the clerks who had
been so specious on the occasion of her first visit, "that we can get
you anything to do. You are not a governess, you know, in the ordinary
sense. You cannot teach music, nor languages, nor drawing. What can you
expect, madam?"

"But you told me," began poor Florence, "you told me when I paid my fee
on the previous occasion of calling that you could get me a post without
the slightest difficulty."

"We will do our utmost, of course, madam; but, with your want of
experience, we can make no definite promise. We certainly made none in
the past," and the clerk whom Florence was interrogating gave her a
severe glance, which was meant as a dismissal.

"If you cannot get me anything to do as a teacher, is there nothing else
you can think of to suit me? Secretaries are sometimes employed, are
they not?"

"Secretaryships are not in our line," said the clerk; "at least, not for
ladies. People prefer men for the post--clever men who understand
shorthand. You, of course, know nothing of that accomplishment?"

"Certainly not! Girls never learn shorthand," said Florence.

She left one office after the other, feeling sadder and sadder.

"What is to be done?" she said to herself, almost in tones of despair.




CHAPTER XIV.

A BLUNT QUESTION.


Florence was returning slowly home by way of Trafalgar Square when she
heard a voice in her ear. She turned quickly, and was much astonished to
see the bright face and keen blue eyes of Maurice Trevor.

"I thought it must be you," exclaimed the young man. "I am glad to see
you. You passed me in a hurry just now, and never noticed me, so I took
the liberty of following you. How do you do? I didn't know you were in
town."

"I have been in town for over a fortnight," replied Florence. She found
herself colouring, then turning pale.

"Is anything the matter? You don't look well."

"I am tired, that is all."

"May I walk part of the way home with you? It is nice to meet an old
friend."

"Just as you please," replied Florence.

"Where do you live?"

"I am in a house in Westminster--12, Prince's Mansion, it is called. It
is a curious sort of place, and let out in rooms to girls like myself.
There is a restaurant downstairs. It is a nice, convenient place, and it
is not dear. I think myself very lucky to have a room there."

"I suppose you are," assented Trevor, "but it sounds extraordinary. Do
you like living alone in London?"

"I have no choice," replied Florence.

"I was sorry not to have seen you again before we left Dawlish. We had a
good deal in common, had we not? That was a pleasant afternoon that we
spent together looking at the sea-anemones."

"Very pleasant," she answered.

"And how is your mother, Miss Aylmer, and that nice young friend--I
forget her name."

"Mother is quite well. I heard from her a few days ago; and Kitty
Sharston is abroad."

"Kitty Sharston: that is a pretty name."

"And Kitty is so pretty herself," continued Florence, forgetting her
anxieties, and beginning to talk in a natural way. "She is one of the
nicest girls I have ever met. Her father has just returned from India,
and he and she are enjoying a holiday together. But now, may I ask you
some questions? Why are you not with Mrs. Aylmer and Bertha Keys?"

"I have not been at Aylmer's Court for some days. My mother has not been
quite well, and I have been paying her a visit. But do tell me more
about yourself. Are you going to live altogether in London?"

"I hope so."

"What a pity I didn't know it before! Mother would so like to know you,
Miss Aylmer. I have told her something about you. Won't you come and see
her some day? She would call on you, but she is quite an old lady, and
perhaps you will not stand on ceremony."

"Of course not. I should be delighted to see your mother," said
Florence, brightening up wonderfully. "I have been very lonely," she
added.

"When I go home to-night I will tell mother that I have met you, and she
will write to you. Will you spend Sunday with us?"

"Shall you be at home?"

"Yes; I am not going back to Aylmer's Court until Tuesday. I will ask
mother to invite you. I could meet you and bring you to Hampstead. We
have a cottage in a terrace close to the heath; you will enjoy the air
on Hampstead Heath. It is nearly as good as being in the country."

"I am sure it must be lovely. I am glad I met you," said poor Florence.

"You look better now," he answered, "but please give me your address
over again."

As Trevor spoke, he took a small, gold-mounted note-book from his
pocket, and when Florence gave him the address he entered it in a neat
hand.

"Thank you," he said, putting the note-book back into his waistcoat
pocket. "You will be sure to receive your invitation. You look more
rested now, but you still have quite a fagged look."

"How can you tell? How do you know?"

"I have often watched that sort of look on people's faces. I take a
great interest in--oh! so many things, that I could talk to you about if
we had time. I am very sorry for Londoners. I should not care to live in
London all my life."

"Nor should I; but, all the same, I expect I shall have to. Perhaps I
ought to tell you, Mr. Trevor, quite frankly that I am a very poor
girl, and have to earn my own living--that is why I am staying in a
place like Prince's Mansions. I have an attic in No. 12, a tiny room up
in the roof, and I am looking out for employment."

"What sort of employment? What do you want to do?" asked Trevor.

"I suppose I shall have to teach, but I should like to be a secretary."

"A secretary--that is rather a wide remark. What sort of secretary?"

"Oh, I don't know; but anything is better than teaching. It is just
because a secretaryship sounds vague that I think I should like it."

Trevor was thinking to himself. After a moment he spoke.

"Do you mind my asking you a very blunt question?"

Florence gave him a puzzled glance.

"What sort of a question? What do you mean?"

"Are you not Mrs. Aylmer's niece?"

"Your Mrs. Aylmer's niece?"

"Yes."

"I am her niece by marriage. Her husband was my father's brother."

"I understand; but how is it she never asks you to Aylmer's Court nor
takes any notice of you?"

"I am afraid I cannot tell you."

"Cannot? Does that mean that you will not?"

"I will not, then."

Trevor flushed slightly. They had now nearly reached Westminster.

"Here is a tea-shop," he said; "will you come in and have tea with me?"

Florence hesitated.

"Thank you. I may as well," she said then slowly.

They entered a pretty shop with little round tables covered with white
cloths. That sort of shop was a novelty at that time.

Trevor and Florence secured a table to themselves. Florence was very
hungry, but she restrained her appetite, fearing that he would notice.
She longed to ask for another bun and a pat of butter.

"Oh, dear," she was saying to herself, as she drank her tea and ate her
thin bread-and-butter, "I could demolish half the things in the shop. It
is perfectly dreadful, and this tea must take the place of another meal.
I must take the benefit of his hospitality."

A few moments later Trevor had bidden her good-bye.

"My mother will be sure to write to you," he said.

She would not let him walk with her as far as her lodgings, but shook
hands with him with some pleasure in her face.

"I am so glad I met you," she repeated, and he echoed the sentiment.

As soon as he got home that day he went straight to his mother.

"You are better, are you not?" he said to her.

Mrs. Trevor was a middle-aged woman, who was more or less of an invalid.
She was devoted to her son Maurice, and, although she delighted in
feeling that he was provided for for life owing to Mrs. Aylmer's
generosity, she missed him morning, noon, and night.

"Ah, darling, it is good to see you back again," she said; "but you look
hot and tired. What a long time you have been in town!"

"I have had quite an adventure," he said. "Mother, I want to know if you
will do something for me."

"You have but to ask, Maurice."

"There is a girl"--he hesitated, and a very slight accession of colour
came into his bronzed cheeks, "there is a girl I have taken rather a
fancy to. Oh, no, I am not the least bit in love with her, so don't
imagine it, little mother; but I pity her, and like her also
exceedingly. I met her down at Dawlish. I want to know if you will be
good to her. I came across her to-day whilst walking in town, and she
was looking, oh! so fagged out and tired! I said you would write and
invite her to come and see us here, and I promised that you would ask
her to spend next Sunday with us."

"Oh, my dear Maurice, your last Sunday with me, God only knows for how
long!"

"But you don't mind, do you, mother?"

She looked at him very earnestly. She was a wise woman in her way.

"No, I don't mind," she said; "I will ask her, of course."

"Then that is all right. Her name is Miss Florence Aylmer, and this is
her address."

"Aylmer! How strange!"

"It is all very strange, mother. I cannot understand it, and it troubles
me a good deal. She is Florence Aylmer, and she is my Mrs. Aylmer's
niece by marriage."

"Very queer," said Mrs. Trevor; "I never thought Mrs. Aylmer had any
relations. What sort of girl did you say she was?"

"Not exactly handsome, but with a taking face and a good deal of pluck
about her--and oh, mother, I believe she is starvingly poor, and she has
to earn her own living, I made her have a cup to tea and some
bread-and-butter to-night, and she ate as if she were famished. It's
awfully distressing. I really don't know what ought to be done."




CHAPTER XV.

EDITH FRANKS.


When Florence reached home she sat down for a long time in her attic,
and did not move. She was thoroughly tired, and the slight meal she had
taken at the restaurant had by no means satisfied her appetite. After
about half an hour of anxious thought, during which she looked far older
than her years, she took off her hat, and, going to her tiny chest of
drawers, unlocked one of them and took her purse out. She carefully
counted its contents. There were twelve unbroken sovereigns in the
purse, and about two pounds' worth of silver--nearly fourteen pounds in
all.

"How fast it is going!" thought the girl. "At this rate it will not see
me through the winter, and, if those terrible people at the different
registry-offices are right, I may not get any work during the whole
winter. What shall I do? I will not go back to the little Mummy, to live
upon her and prove myself a failure. I shall not ask anybody to help me.
I must, I will fight my battle alone. Oh, this hunger! What would I not
give for a good dinner."

She took up one of the shillings, and looked at it longingly. With this
in her hand, she could go down to the restaurant and have as much food
as she required. Suddenly she made up her mind.

"I must eat well for once. I must get over this hunger. I cannot help
myself," she said to herself. "This meal must last me the greater part
of the week; to-morrow and the next day and the next I must do with a
bread-and-butter dinner; but there is Sunday to be thought of--Sunday
with that nice Mr. Trevor, Sunday with the country air all around, and
of course plenty to eat. If I can have a good dinner to-night, I can go
without another at least till Sunday."

So, hastily putting back the rest of her money, and locking her drawer,
she went downstairs to the restaurant. She went to a table where she had
sat before, and ordered her meal. She looked at the _menu_ and ordered
her dinner with extreme care. She could have anything she fancied on the
_menu_ for a shilling. A good many girls had really excellent and
nourishing meals for sixpence, but Florence was so hungry she determined
to be, as she expressed it, greedy for once. So she made her selection,
and then sat back to wait as best she could for the first of the dishes
to arrive.

A girl with a rosy face and bright dark eyes presently came and took the
seat opposite to her. She was a stranger to Florence. The waitress came
up and asked what the girl would like to have for dinner.

"Soup, please, and a chop afterwards," was the hasty reply.

The waitress went away, and the girl, taking a German book out of her
bag, opened it and began to read eagerly. She did not notice Florence,
who had no book, and was feeling in a very excited and fractious humour,
becoming feverishly anxious for her dinner. Presently Florence dropped
her napkin-ring, making a little clatter as she did so. The girl seated
opposite started, stopped, and picked it up for her.

"Thank you," said Florence.

There was something in her tone which caused the strange girl to drop
her German book and look at her attentively.

"Are you very tired?" she said.

"Tired, yes, but it does not matter," answered Florence.

"It is the hot weather," said the girl; "it is horrid being in town now.
I should not be, only--" She paused and looked full at Florence, then
she said impulsively: "You will be somewhat surprised: I am going to be
a doctor--a lady doctor. You are horrified, no doubt. Before ten years
are out there will be women doctors in England: they are much wanted."

"But can you, do they allow you to study in the men's schools?"

"Do they?" said the girl; "of course they don't. I have to go to America
to get my degree. I am working here, and shall go to New York early in
the spring. Oh, I am very busy, and deeply interested. The whole thing
is profoundly interesting, fearfully so. I am reading medical books, not
only in English, but also in French and German. Do you mind if I go on
reading until dinner arrives?"

"Of course not. Why should you stop your studies on my account?" said
Florence.

The girl again favoured her with a keen glance, and then, to Florence's
surprise, instead of continuing her reading, she immediately closed her
book and looked full across at her companion.

"Why don't you read?" said Florence, in a voice which was almost cross.

"Thank you; I have found other employment."

"Staring at me?"

"Well, yes; you interest me. You are _fearfully_ neurotic and--and
anæmic. You ought to take iron."

"Thank you," said Florence; "I don't want anything which would make me
more hungry than I am at present. Iron is supposed to promote appetite,
is it not?"

"Yes. Do you live in this house?"

"I do," answered Florence.

"I have taken a room on the third floor, No. 17. What is your number?"

"Oh, I aspire a good bit," said Florence, with the ghost of a smile;
"the number of my room is 32."

"May I come and see you?"

"No, thank you."

"What a rude girl! You certainly are _fearfully_ neurotic. Ah! here
comes--no, it's not my dinner, it is yours."

The soup Florence had ordered was placed before her. How she wished this
bright-eyed girl, with the rude manner, as she considered, would resume
her German.

"Would you like me to go on reading?" said the girl.

"You can please yourself, of course," answered Florence.

"I won't look at you, if that is what you mean; but I do wish, if I may
not come to see you, that you will come to see me. There are so few
girls at present in the house, and those who are there ought to make
friends, ought they not? See: this is my card--Edith Franks."

"And you really mean to be a doctor--a doctor?" said Florence, not
glancing at the card which her companion pushed towards her.

"It is the dearest dream of my life. I want to follow in the steps of
Mrs. Garrett Anderson; is she not noble? I thought you would be
pleased."

"I don't know that I am; it does not sound feminine," replied Florence.
She was devouring her soup, and hating Edith Franks for staring at her.

Presently Edith's own dinner arrived, and she began to eat. She ate in a
leisurely fashion, sipping her soup, and breaking her bread into small
portions. She was not very hungry; in fact, she was scarcely hungry at
all.

As Florence's own quite large meal proceeded, she began to consider
herself the greediest of the greedy.

Miss Franks sat on and chatted. She talked very well, and she had plenty
of tact, and soon Florence began to consider her rather agreeable than
the reverse. Florence had ordered five distinct dishes for her dinner,
and she ate each dish right through. Miss Franks was now even afraid to
glance in her direction.

"There is no doubt the poor soul was starving," she said to herself.

At last Florence's meal was over. The two girls left the table together.

"Come to my room, won't you, to-night? It is not seven o'clock yet. I
always have cocoa between nine and ten. Come and have a cup of cocoa
with me, will you not?"

"Thank you," said Florence; "you are very good. My name is Florence
Aylmer."

"And you are studying? What are you doing?"

"I am not studying."

"Aren't you? Then--"

"You are full of curiosity, and you want to know why I am here," said
Florence. "I am here because I want to earn my bread. I hope to get a
situation soon. I am a girl out of a situation--you know the kind." She
gave a laugh, and ran up the winding stairs to her own attic at the top
of the house, without glancing back at Edith Franks.

"Shy, poor, and half-starved," said the medical student to herself; "I
thought my work would come to me if I waited long enough. I must look
after her a little bit."

Meanwhile, the very first thing Florence found when she entered her room
was a letter, or, rather, a packet, lying on her table. She pounced upon
it, as the hungry pounce on food. Her appetite was thoroughly satisfied
at last, and her mind was just in the humour to require some diversion.
She thought that she would rather like having cocoa presently with Miss
Franks.

"She shall not patronise me; of that I am resolved," thought the proud
girl. But here was a letter--a thick, thick letter. She flung herself
into the first chair and tore it open. She glanced, a puzzled expression
on her face, at pages of closely-written matter, and then picked up a
single sheet, which had fallen from the packet. The letter was from
Bertha Keys, and ran as follows:--

    "MY DEAR, GOOD, BRAVE FLO--

     "I have obtained your address, no matter how, no matter why,
     and I write to you. How are you getting on? You did a daring
     thing when you returned you know what; but, my dear, I respect
     you all the more for endeavouring to be independent. I think,
     however, it is quite possible that you may have considered my
     other suggestion.

     "Now, Flo, I should like to see myself in print--not myself as
     I am, but my words, the ideas which come through my brain. I
     long to see them before the world, to hear remarks upon them.
     Will you, dear Flo, read the tale which I enclose, and if you
     think it any good at all take it to a publisher and see if he
     will use it? You had better find an editor of a magazine, and
     offer it to him. It is not more than four thousand words in
     length, and it is, I think, exciting; and will you put your
     name to it and publish it as your own? I don't want the world
     to know Bertha Keys writes stories, but I should like the world
     to know the thoughts which come into her head, and if we make a
     compact between us there can be nothing wrong in it, and--but I
     will add no more. Do, do, dear Flo, make use of this story. I
     do not require any money for it. Make what use of it you can,
     and let me know if I am to send you further MSS.

     "Your aunt, Mrs. Aylmer, is a little more snappish than usual.
     I have a hard time, I assure you, with her. My great friend,
     Maurice Trevor, returns, I think, in a day or two. Ah,
     Florence, you little know what a great, great friend he is!

    "Yours affectionately,

    "BERTHA KEYS."




CHAPTER XVI.

ON THE BRINK OF AN ABYSS.


Florence sat for a long time with the manuscript of Bertha's story on
her lap. Having read the letter once, she did not trouble herself to
read it again. It was the sort of letter Bertha always wrote--the letter
which meant temptation, the letter which seemed to drag its victim to
the edge of an abyss.

Florence said to herself: "Shall I read the manuscript or shall I not?
Shall I put it into the fire or shall I waste a couple of pence in
returning it to Bertha, or shall I--"

She did not finish even in her own mind the last suggestion which formed
itself in her brain. She had not read the title of the manuscript, but
her thoughts kept wandering round and round it to the exclusion of
everything else. Presently she took it in her hand, and felt its weight,
and then she turned the pages one by one, and glanced at them for a
moment, and saw that they were all written out very neatly, in a sort of
copper-plate writing which was not the least like Bertha's. Bertha had a
bold, dashing sort of hand, but this hand might be the work of
anyone--the ordinary clerk used such a handwriting. The words were very
easily read. Florence caught herself imbibing the meaning of a whole
sentence; then, with a sudden, quick movement, she dashed the
manuscript away from her to the other side of the room, and walked over
and stood by the open window looking across London. She had a headache,
brought on through intense excitement, and the view, for the greater
part concealed by the interminable London houses, scarcely appealed to
her.

"It all looks worldly and sordid," thought the girl to herself. "I
suppose it is very nice that I should have this peep across those
chimney-tops, and should see those tops of houses, tier upon tier, far
away as the skyline, but I am sick of them. They all look sordid. They
all look cruel. London is a place to crush a girl; but I--I _won't_ be
crushed."

She paced up and down her room. There was not the slightest doubt that
Bertha's letter was the one subject of her thoughts. Suddenly she came
to a resolution.

"I know what I'll do," she said to herself; "I won't read that
manuscript, but I'll get Miss Edith Franks to read it. I won't tell her
who has written it; she can draw her own conclusions. I'll get her to
read it aloud to me, and perhaps she will tell me what it is worth. I
hope, I do hope to God that it is worth nothing--that it is poor and
badly written, and that she will advise the author to put it into the
fire, and not to waste her time offering it to a publisher. She shall be
the judge of its merits; but I won't decide yet whether I shall use it
or not--only she shall tell me whether it is worth using. I am sure it
won't be worth using. Bertha wrote a clever essay long ago, but she does
not write much, and she must be out of practice; and why should she be
so clever and able to do everything so well? But Miss Franks shall
decide. She looks as if she could give one a very downright honest
opinion, and she is literary and cultivated, and would know if the thing
is worth anything. Yes, it is a comfort to come to some decision."

So Florence washed her face and hands, made her hair tidy, and put on a
fresh white linen collar, and soon after nine o'clock, with the
manuscript in her hand, she ran downstairs, and presently knocked at the
door of No. 17. The brisk voice of Miss Franks said: "Come in!" and
Florence entered.

"That is right," said Edith Franks; "I am right glad to see you. What do
you think of my diggings--nice, eh?"

"Oh, you are comfortable here," said Florence, with the ghost of a sigh,
for truly the room, as compared with her own, looked absolutely
luxurious. There was a comfortable sofa, which Miss Franks told her
afterwards she had contrived out of a number of old packing-cases, and
there was a deep straw armchair lined with chintz and abundantly
cushioned, and on a table pushed against the wall and on the mantelpiece
were jars full of lovely flowers--roses, verbena, sweetbriar, and
quantities of pinks. The room was fragrant with these flowers, and
Florence gave a great sigh as she smelt them.

"Oh, how sweet!" she said.

"Yes; I put this verbena on the little round table near the sofa; you
are to lie on the sofa. Come: put up your feet this minute."

"But I really don't want to," said Florence, protesting, and beginning
to laugh.

"But I want you to. You can do as you please in the restaurant, and you
can do as you please in your own diggings, but in mine you are to do as
I wish. Now then, up go your feet. I am making the most delicious cocoa
by a new recipe. I bought a spirit-lamp this morning. You cannot think
how clever I am over all sorts of cooking."

"But what are those things on that table?" said Florence.

"Oh, some of my medical tools. I do a tiny bit of dissecting now and
then--nothing very dreadful. I have nothing to-night of the least
importance, so you need not shudder. I want to devote myself to you."

Florence could not but own that it was nice to be waited on. The sofa
made out of packing-cases was extremely soft and comfortable. Miss
Franks put pillows for her guest's comfort and laid a light couvre-pied
over her feet.

"Now then," she said, "a little gentle breeze is coming in at the
window, and the roses and pinks and mignonette will smell more sweetly
still as the night advances. I will not light the lamp yet, for there is
splendid moonlight, and it is such a witching hour. I can make the cocoa
beautifully by moonlight. It will be quite romantic to do so, and then
afterwards I will show you my charming reading-lamp. I have a lamp with
a green shade lined with white, the best possible thing for the eyes. I
will make you a shade when I have time. Now then, watch me make the
cocoa, or, if you prefer it, look out of the window and let the moon
soothe your ruffled feelings."

"You are very kind, and I don't know how to thank you," said Florence;
"but how can you possibly tell that I have ruffled feelings?"

"See them in your brow, my dear: observe them in your face. I am not a
medical student for nothing. I tell you you are anæmic and neurotic;
indeed, your nerves have reached a rare state of irritability. At the
present moment you are in quite a crux, and do not know what to do. Oh,
I am a witch--I am quite a witch; I can read people through and through;
but I like you, my dear. You are vastly more interesting to me because
you are in a crux, and neurotic and anæmic. Now then, look at your dear
lady moon, and let me make the cocoa in peace."

"What an extraordinary girl!" thought Florence to herself; "but I
suppose I like her. She is so fearfully downright, I feel almost afraid
of her."

Miss Franks darted here and there, busy with her cooking. After a time,
with a little sigh of excitement, Florence saw her put the extinguisher
on the spirit-lamp. She then hastily lit the lamp with the green shade,
and, placing it on the table where the verbena and the sweetbriar and
mignonette gave forth such intoxicating odours, she laid a cup of
steaming frothy cocoa by Florence's side, and a plate of biscuits not
far off.

"Now then, eat, drink, and be thankful," said Miss Franks. "I love cocoa
at this hour. Yours is made entirely of milk, so it will be vastly
nourishing. I am going to enjoy my cup also."

She flung herself into the straw chair lined with cushions, and took her
own supper daintily and slowly. While she ate, her bright eyes kept
darting about the room noting everything, and from time to time
fastening themselves with the keenest penetration on Florence's flushed
face.

Florence felt that never in the whole course of her life had she enjoyed
anything more than that cup of cocoa.

When the meal was finished Miss Franks jumped up and began to wash the
cups and saucers.

"You must let me help you," said Florence. She sprang very determinedly
to her feet. "I have done these things over and over for mother at
home," she said, "and I really must wash my own cup and saucer."

"You shall wipe, and I will wash," said Miss Franks. "I don't at all
mind being helped. Division of labour lightens toil, does it not? There,
take that tea-towel; it is a beauty, is it not? It is Russian."

It was embroidered at each edge with wonderful stitches in red, and was
also trimmed with heavy lace.

"I have a sister in Russia, and she sent me a lot of these things when I
told her I meant to take up housekeeping," said Miss Franks. "Now that
we have washed up and put everything into apple-pie order, what about
that manuscript?"

"What manuscript?" said Florence, starting and colouring.

"The one you brought into the room. You don't suppose I didn't see? You
have hidden it just under that pillow on the sofa. Lie down once more on
your place of repose, and let me run my eye over it."

"Would you?" said Florence. She coloured very deeply. "Would you greatly
mind reading it aloud?"

"You have written it, I presume?" said Miss Franks.

Florence did not say anything. She shut up her mouth into rather a hard
line. Edith Franks nodded twice to herself; then, putting on her
pincenez, she proceeded to read the manuscript. She had a perfectly
well-trained voice without a great amount of expression in it. She read
on at first slowly and smoothly. At the end of the first page she paused
for a moment, and looked full up at her companion.

"How well you have been taught English!" she said.

Still Florence did not utter a word.

At the end of the second page Miss Franks again made a remark.

"Your writing is so good that I have never to pause to find out the
meaning of a word, and you have a very pure Saxon style."

"Oh, I wish you would go on, and make your comments at the end," said
Florence then, in an almost cross tone.

"My dear, that answer of yours requires medicine. I shall certainly
insist upon your taking a tonic to your room with you. I can dispense a
little already, and have some directions by me. I can make up something
which will do you a lot of good."

"Do go on reading," said Florence.

Edith Franks proceeded with the manuscript. Her even voice still flowed
on without pause or interruption. At the end of the third or fourth
page, however, she ceased to make any remarks: she turned the pages now
rapidly, and about the middle of the story her voice changed its tone.
It was no longer even nor smooth: it became broken as though something
oppressed her, then it rose triumphant and excited. She had finished:
she flung the manuscript back almost at Florence's head with a gay
laugh.

"And you pretend, you pretend," she said, "that you are a starving
girl--a girl out of a situation! You are a sham, Miss Aylmer--you are a
sham."

"What do you mean?" said Florence.

"Why, this," said Edith Franks. She took up the manuscript again.

"What about it? I mean, do you--do you--like it?"

"Like it? It is not that exactly. I admire it, of course. Have you
written much? Have you ever published anything?"

"Never a line."

"But you must have written a great deal to have achieved that style."

"No, I have written very little."

"Then you are a heaven-born genius: give me your hand."

Florence slowly and unwilling extended her hand. Miss Franks grasped it
in both of hers.

"Flexible fingers," she said, "but not exactly, not precisely the hand
of an artist, and yet, and yet you are an artist through and through. My
dear, you are a genius."

"I do not know why you say that."

"Because you have written that story, that queer, weird, extraordinary
tale. It is not the plot alone: it is the way you have told it, the way
the figures group themselves together, the strength that is in them, the
way you have grasped the situation; and you have made all those
characters live. They move backwards and forwards; they are human
beings. I am so glad Johanna won the victory, she was so brave, and it
was such a cruel temptation. Oh, I shall dream of that story, and yet
you say you have written very little."

"You jump to conclusions," said Florence. She spoke in a queer voice. "I
never told you that I had written that story."

"But you have, my dear; I see it in your face. Oh, I congratulate you."

"Would it be possible to--to publish it?" was Florence's next remark,
made after a long pause.

"Publish it? I know half a dozen editors in London who would jump at it.
I know a good deal about writing, as it happens. My brother is a
journalist, and he has talked to me about these things. He is a very
clever journalist, and at one time I had a faint sort of dream that I
might follow in his steps, but my own career is better--I mean for me.
Publish it; of course, you shall publish it. Editors are only too
thankful to get the real stuff, but, poor souls! they seldom do get it.
You will be paid well for this. Of course, you will make up your mind to
be an author, a writer of short stories, a second Bret Harte. Oh, this
is splendid, superb!"

Florence got up from her sofa; she felt a little giddy. Her face was
very white.

"Do you--do you know any publishers personally?" was her next remark.

"Not personally, but I can give you a list of half a dozen at least. I
shall watch your career with intense interest, and I can advise you too.
I tell you what it is--on Sunday I will go and see my brother Tom, and I
will tell him about you, and ask him what he would recommend. You must
not give yourself away; you have a great career before you. Of course,
you will lead the life of a writer, and nothing else?"

"Good night," said Florence; "I am very tired, but I am awfully obliged
to you."

"Won't you wait until I make up your tonic?"

"I could not take it to-night. I have a bad headache; I want to go to
bed. Thank you so very much."

"But, I say, you are leaving your darling, precious manuscript behind
you." Miss Franks darted after Florence, and thrust the manuscript into
her hand.

"Take care of it," she said; "it is the work of a genius. Now, good
night."

Florence went upstairs. Slowly she entered her dismal little attic. She
lit a candle, and locked her door. She laid the manuscript on the chest
of drawers. She went some steps away from it as though she were afraid
of it; then with a hasty movement she unlocked the drawer where she kept
her purse, and thrust the manuscript in. She locked the drawer again,
and put the key into her writing-desk, and then she undressed as fast as
ever she could, and got into bed, and covered her head so that she
should not see the moon shining into her room, and said under her
breath: "O God, let me sleep as soon as possible, for I cannot, I dare
not think."




CHAPTER XVII.

NEARER AND NEARER.


Florence had lived without letters for some time, but now they seemed to
pour in. The next morning, as she was preparing her extremely frugal
breakfast, consisting of bread without butter and a little weak tea, she
heard the postman climbing all the way up to her attic floor. His double
knock sounded on her door, and a letter was dropped in. She took it up:
it was from her mother. She opened it languidly. Mrs. Aylmer wrote in
some distress:--

    "MY DARLING CHILD--

     "The queerest thing has happened. I cannot possibly account for
     it. I have been robbed of five pounds. I was on the sands
     yesterday talking to a very pleasant jolly fat little man, who
     interested me by telling me that he knew London, and that he
     considered I had done extremely wrong in allowing you to go
     there without a chaperon. He described the dangers to which
     young girls were subjected in such terrible and fearful
     language that I very nearly screamed.

     "I thanked him for his advice, and told him that I would write
     to you immediately and ask you to come home. My darling, it
     would be better for us both to starve at home than for you to
     run the risks which he has hinted at.

     "But to come to the real object of this letter. I am five
     pounds short, my dear Florry--I had five pounds in my pocket,
     two of which I had received unexpectedly, and three from my
     very, very tiny income. Sukey and I were going to have quite a
     little turn-out--a nice tea-party; but fortunately, most
     fortunately, Providence prevented my ordering the buns and
     cakes, or sending out the invitations, and when I came in my
     money was gone. Of course it was not the little man, so do not
     point your suspicions at him. Somebody robbed the widow. Oh,
     what a judgment will yet fall upon that head!

     "Dear Flo, I know you have something by you--how large a sum
     you have never confided to your poor mother. Will you lend me
     five pounds, darling, and send it at once? Quarter-day is
     coming on, and I have several things to meet. Do not hesitate,
     my love: it shall be returned to you when I get my next
     allowance.

     "I will write to you later on with regard to your coming back
     to Dawlish. In the meantime think of your poor mother's
     distress, and do your utmost for her."

Florence let the letter drop from her hands. She sat before her frugal
board, and slowly and listlessly raised her cup of tea to her lips.

"I seem to be pushed gradually nearer and nearer the edge," she said to
herself. "What possessed mother to lose that money? Of course the man
was a thief. Mother is so silly, and she really gets worse as she grows
older. Dear little Mummy, I love her with all my heart; but her want of
common-sense does try me sometimes."

The day was going to be a particularly hot one. There was a mist all
over the horizon, and the breeze was moving languidly.

Florence had her window wide open, and was wondering how she could live
through the day. To-day was Saturday. To-morrow she would have a
pleasant time. She looked forward to meeting Maurice Trevor more than
she dared to admit to herself. She wondered what sort of woman his
mother was.

"At any rate," she said to herself, "he is nice. I like him, and I am
sure he likes me, and we shall enjoy ourselves on Hampstead Heath. It
won't be so hot there; it will be a little bit of the country. I must
send mother the five pounds, and I suppose I need not decide about that
awful manuscript till Monday."

These thoughts had scarcely come into her head before there came a knock
at her door. Florence went to open it, and Edith Franks, very neatly
dressed, and looking business-like and purposeful, with bright eyes and
a clear colour in her cheeks, stood on the threshold.

"How do you do?" she said. "I am just off to my work. I am about to have
a very hard day, but I thought I would refresh myself with a sight of
you. May I come in?"

"Please do," said Florence, but she did not look altogether happy as she
gave the invitation. Her bed was unmade, her dressing things were lying
about, her breakfast was just the sort which she did not wish the
keen-eyed medical student to see. There was no help for it, however.
Edith Franks had come up for the purpose of spying into the nakedness of
the land, and spy she did. She looked quickly round her in that darting,
bird-like manner which characterised all her movements. She saw the
untidy room, she noticed the humble, insufficient meal.

Edith Franks had the kindest heart in the world; but she was sometimes a
little, just a very little destitute of tact.

"My dear," she said, "may I sit down? Your stairs really take one's
breath away. I know now what I specially came for. Tom has promised to
call for me this morning."

"Who is Tom?" asked Florence.

"Don't you know? What a short memory you have! I told you something
about him last night--my clever journalist brother. He is on the staff
of the _Daily Tidings_, and the new six-penny magazine that people talk
so much about, the _Argonaut_. He has a splendid post, and has great
influence. If you will entrust that precious manuscript to me, I will
let Tom see it. He is the best of judges. If he says it is worth
anything, your fortune is made. If, on the other hand--"

"Oh, but he won't like it, and I think I would rather not," said
Florence. She turned very pale as she spoke. Edith gave her another
glance.

"Let me have it," she said. "Tom's seeing it means nothing. I will get
him to run his eye over it while we are at lunch together. Here, get it
for me; there's a good girl."

Florence rose. Her feet seemed weighted with lead. She unlocked her
drawer, took out the manuscript, and nearly flung it at Edith's head.
She restrained herself, however, and stood with it in her hand looking
as undecided as a girl could look.

"You tempt me mightily," she said; "why do you tempt me?"

"To get money for what is such splendid work," said Miss Franks, with a
gay laugh. "I am glad I tempt you, for you want money, you poor, proud,
queer girl. I like you--I like you much, but you must just let me help
you over this crisis. Give it to me, my dear."

She nearly snatched the manuscript from Florence, and thrust it into a
small leather bag which she wore at her side.

"Tom shall tell you what he thinks of it, and now ta! ta!"




CHAPTER XVIII.

A VESTIGE OF HOPE.


Miss Franks was heard tripping downstairs as fast as her feet could
carry her, and Florence covered her face with her hands.

"I have yielded," she said to herself. "What is to be done?" She got up
desperately.

"I must not think, that is evident," was her next sensation. She could
not take any more breakfast. She was too tired, too stunned, too
unnerved. She dressed herself slowly, and determined, after posting the
necessary money to her mother, to go the round of the different
registry-offices where she had entered her name.

"If there is any chance, any chance at all, I will tell Edith Franks the
truth to-night," she said to herself. "If there is no chance of my
earning money--why, this sum that mother has demanded of me means the
reducing of my store to seven pounds and some odd silver--I shall be
penniless before many weeks are over. What is to be done?"

Florence wrote a short letter to her mother. She made no allusions
whatever to the little woman's comments with regard to the dangers in
which she herself was placed.

"I am extremely likely to die of starvation, but there is no other
danger in my living alone in London," she thought, with a short laugh.
And then she went to a post-office and got the necessary postal orders,
and put them into the letter, and registered it and sent it off.

"Oh, Mummy, do be careful," she said, in the postscript; "it has been
rather hard to spare you this, though, of course I do it with a heart
and a half."

Afterwards poor Florence went the dreary round--from Harley-street to
Bond-street, from Bond-street to Regent-street, from Regent-street to
the Strand did she wander, and in each registry-office she received the
same reply: "There is nothing at all likely to suit you."

At last, in a little office in Fleet-street, she was handed the address
of a lady who kept a school, and who might be inclined to give Florence
a small post.

"The lady came in late last night," said the young woman who spoke to
her across a crowded counter, "and she said she wanted someone to come
and live in the house and look after a lot of girls, and she would be
glad to make arrangements, as term would begin in about a fortnight. You
might look her up. I know the salary will be very small; but I think she
is willing to give board and lodging."

Slightly cheered by this vestige of hope, Florence mounted an omnibus,
and presently found herself at South Kensington. She found the right
street, and stopped before a door of somewhat humble dimensions. She
rang the bell. A charwoman opened the door after some delay, told her
that Mrs. Fleming was within, and asked her what her message was.

Florence said she had come after the post which Mrs. Fleming was
offering.

The charwoman looked dubious.

"I wouldn't if I was you," she said, in a low voice, hiding both her
hands under her apron as she spoke.

Florence would not condescend to consult with the charwoman whether she
was to accept the situation or not. She simply said: "Will you tell your
mistress that I am here?"

"A wilful lass," muttered the old woman, "and I told her she had better
not." She shambled across a dirty passage, and opened a door at the
farther end. A moment later Florence found herself in the presence of a
tall woman with a very much powdered face and untidy hair. This
personage was dressed in rusty black, wore a dirty collar and cuffs, and
had hands evidently long strangers to soap-and-water. She invited
Florence to seat herself, and looked her all over.

"H'm! you've come after the situation. Your name, please."

"Florence Aylmer."

"Your age?"

"I am nearly twenty-one."

"Very young. Have you had experience in controlling the follies of
youth?"

"I have been pupil teacher at my last school for over a year," said
Florence.

"Ah, and where was your school?"

Florence mentioned it.

"Have you ever got into any scrape of any sort, been a naughty girl, or
anything of that kind? I have to make most searching enquiries."

"Why do you ask?" said Florence. She coloured first, and then turned
very pale.

Mrs. Fleming gazed at her with hawk-like eyes.

"Why don't you answer?"

"Because I cannot see," replied Florence, with some spirit, "that you
have any right to ask me the question. I can give you excellent
testimonials from the mistress of the school where I was living."

"That will not do. I find that nothing so influences youth as that the
instructress should give an epitome of her own life, should be able
plainly to show how _she_ has conquered temptation, and risen even above
the _appearance_ of evil. If there is a flaw in the governess, there
will also be a flaw in the pupils--understand, eh?"

"Yes, madam," said Florence; "I am afraid your post won't suit me. I
have certainly a great many flaws; I never supposed you wanted a perfect
governess."

"Impertinent," said Mrs. Fleming. "Here am I ready to offer you the
shelter of my roof, the excellent food which always prevails in this
establishment, and fifteen pounds a year, and yet you talk in that lofty
tone. You are a very silly young woman. I am quite sure you won't suit
me."

"It is a foregone conclusion," said Florence, indulging in a little
pertness as she saw that the situation would no more suit her than she
it. She walked towards the door.

"I will wish you good morning," she said.

"Stay one moment. What can you teach?"

"Nothing that will suit you."

"I must certainly remove my name from that registry-office. I
stipulated that I should see godly maidens of spotless character. You,
who evidently have a shady past, dare to come to me to offer your
polluted services! I will wish you good morning."

"I have already wished you good morning," said Florence. She turned
without another word, and, not deigning to ask the assistance of the
charwoman, left the house.

When she got to the street she was trembling.

"It is hard for girls like me to earn their own bread," she said to
herself. "What is to be done? Nearer and nearer am I getting to the edge
of the cliff. What is to be done?"

She returned home, and spent the rest of the day in a state of intense
depression. Her attic was so suffocating that she could not stay in it,
but there was a general sitting-room downstairs, and she went there and
contrived to make herself as wretched as she could over a well-thumbed
novel which another girl had left behind her on the previous evening.

A certain Miss Mitford, the head of this part of the establishment,
wandered in, saw that Florence was quite alone, noticed how ill and
wretched she looked, and sat down near her.

"Your name is, I think, Aylmer," said this good woman.

"Yes: Florence Aylmer," replied Florence, and she scarcely raised her
eyes from her book.

"You don't look very well. I am going for a little drive: a friend of
mine is lending me her carriage. I have plenty of room for you; will you
come with me?"

"Do you mean it?" said Florence, raising languid eyes.

"I certainly do. My friend has a most comfortable carriage. We will
drive to Richmond Park. What do you say?"

"That I thank you very much, and I--"

"Of course you'll come."

"Yes, I'll come," said Florence. She ran upstairs more briskly than she
had done yet. The thought of the drive, and the peace of being alone
with a woman who knew absolutely nothing about her, was soothing. Miss
Mitford was not remarkable for her penetration of character, but she was
essentially kind.

The carriage arrived and she and Florence got in. They drove for a
quarter of a mile without either of them uttering a word; then the
coachman drew up at a shabby house. Miss Mitford got out, ran up the
steps, and rang the bell; in a moment or two three little girls with
very pasty faces and lack-lustre eyes appeared.

"I am sorry I was late, dears," said Miss Mitford; "but jump in: there
is room for us all in the barouche."

Florence felt now almost happy. There was no chance of Miss Mitford
discovering her secret. Indeed, the superintendent of No. 12, Prince's
Mansions, had not the faintest idea of enquiring into Florence's
affairs. She could bestow a passing kindness on a sad-looking girl, but
it was not her habit to enquire further. She chatted to the children,
and Florence joined in. Presently she found herself laughing.

When they reached the park, they all alighted and sat under the trees,
and Miss Mitford produced a mysterious little basket, out of which she
took milk and sponge-cakes, and Florence enjoyed her feast just as much
as the children did. It was seven o'clock when she arrived home again,
and Edith Franks was waiting for her in the downstair hall.




CHAPTER XIX.

IN THE BALANCE.


The moment Edith saw Florence, she went up to her, seized her by the
arm, and said, in an imperious voice: "You must come with me to my room
immediately."

"But why?" asked Miss Aylmer, trying to release herself from the firm
grip in which Edith Franks held her.

"Because I have something most important to tell you."

Florence did not reply. She had been cheered and comforted by her drive,
and she found that Edith Franks, with all her kindness, had a most
irritating effect upon her. There was nothing for it, however, but to
comply, and the two went upstairs as far as the third story together.
There they entered Edith's sitting-room. She pushed Florence down on the
sofa, and, still keeping a hand on each of her shoulders, said
emphatically: "Tom: read it."

"What do you mean?" was Florence's almost inane answer.

"How stupid you are!" Edith gave her a little shake. "When I am
excited--I to whom it means practically nothing, why should not you be?
Tom read it, and he means to show it to his chief. You are made, and I
have made you. Kiss me; let me congratulate you. You will starve no
longer; you will have plenty. What is more, you will have fame. You will
be courted by the great; you have an honourable future in front of you.
Look up! Lose that lack-lustre expression in your eyes. Oh, good
gracious! the girl is ill." For Florence had turned ghastly white.

"This is a case for a doctor," said Edith Franks; "lie down--that is
better." She pulled the cushions away from the sofa and pushed Florence
into a recumbent position.

"I have some sal volatile here; you must drink it."

Edith rushed across the room, took the necessary bottle from her medical
shelf, prepared a dose, and brought it to the half-fainting girl.

Florence sipped it slowly. The colour came back into her cheeks, and her
eyes looked less dazed.

"Now you are more yourself. What was the matter with you?"

"But you--you have not given it; he--he has not shown it--"

"You really are most provoking," said Miss Franks. "I don't know why I
take so much trouble for you--a stranger. I have given you what would
have taken you months to secure for yourself: the most valuable
introduction into the very best quarter for the disposal of your wares.
Oh, you are a lucky girl. But there, you shall dine with me to-night."

"I cannot."

"Too proud, eh?"

"Oh, you don't know my position," said poor Florence.

"Nonsense! Go up to your room and have a rest. I will come for you in a
quarter of an hour. I have ordered dinner for two already. If you don't
eat it, it will be thrown away."

"I am afraid it will have to be thrown away! I--I don't feel well."

"You are a goose; but if you are ill, you shall stay here and I will
nurse you."

"No; I think I'll go upstairs. I want to be alone."

Florence staggered across the room as she spoke. Edith Franks looked at
her for a moment in a puzzled way.

"I shall expect you down to dinner," she said. "Dinner will be ready in
a quarter of an hour. Mind, I shall expect you."

Florence made no answer. She slowly left the room, closing the door
after her, and retired to her own apartment.

Edith Franks clasped both her hands to her head.

"Well, really," she thought, "why should I put myself out about an
ungrateful girl of that sort? But there, she is deeply interesting: one
of those strange vagaries of genius. She is a psychological study,
beyond doubt. I must see plenty of her. I have a great mind to take up
psychology as my special branch of the profession; it is so deeply, so
appallingly interesting. Poor girl, she has great genius! When that
story is published all the world will know. I never saw Tom so excited
about anything. He said: 'There is stuff in this.' He said it after he
had read a page; he said it again when he had gone half-way through the
manuscript; and he clapped his hands at the end and said: 'Bravo!' I
know what that means from Tom. He is the most critical of men. He
distrusts everything until it has proved itself good, and yet he
accepted the talent of that story without a demur."

Miss Franks hurriedly moved about the room, changed her dress, smoothed
her hair, washed her hands, looked at her little gun-metal watch, saw
that the quarter of an hour had expired, and tripped downstairs to the
dining-room.

"Will she be there, or will she not?" thought Edith Franks to herself.

She looked eagerly into the great room with its small tables covered
with white cloths. There were seats in the dining-room for one hundred
and fifty people.

Edith Franks, however, looked over to a certain corner, and there, at
one of the tables, quietly waiting for her, and also neatly dressed, sat
Florence Aylmer.

"That is right," said Miss Franks; "you are coming to your senses."

"Yes," answered Florence, "I am coming to my senses."

There was a bright flush on each of her cheeks, and her eyes were
brilliant: she looked almost handsome.

Edith gazed at her with admiration.

"So you are drinking in the delicious flattery: you are preparing for
the fame which awaits you," said the medical student.

"I want to say one thing, Miss Franks," remarked Florence, bending
forward.

"What is that?"

"When you came up this morning to my room I did not wish to give you the
manuscript; you took it from me almost by force. You promised further
that your brother's seeing it would mean nothing. You did not keep your
word. Your brother has seen it, and, from what you tell me, he approves
of it. From what you tell me further, he is going to show it in a
certain quarter where its success will be more or less assured. Of
course, you and he may be both mistaken, and after all the story which
you think so highly of may be worth nothing; that remains to be proved."

"It is worth a great deal; the world will talk about it," said Edith
Franks.

"But I don't want the world to talk of it," said Florence. "I didn't
wish to be pushed and hurried as I have been. I did wrong to consult
you, and yet I know you meant to be kind. You have not been kind: you
have been the reverse; but you have _meant_ to be kind, and I thank you
for your intention. Things must go their own way. I have been hard
pressed and I have yielded; only please do not ask me to talk about it.
When your brother receives news I shall be glad to know; but even then I
want to hear the fate of the manuscript without comment from you. That
is what I ask. If you will promise that, I will accept your dinner. I am
very proud, and it pains me to accept charity from anyone; but I will
accept your dinner and be grateful to you: only will you promise not to
talk of the manuscript any more?"

"Certainly, my dear," answered Edith Franks. "Have a potato, won't you?"

As Edith helped Florence to a floury potato, she exclaimed, under her
breath: "A little mad, poor girl: a most interesting psychological
study."




CHAPTER XX.

ROSE VIEW.


It was a most glorious Sunday, and Florence felt cheered as she dressed
for her visit to Hampstead. She resolved to put all disagreeable things
out of sight.

"I fell before," she said to herself, "and I am falling again. I am
afraid there is nothing good in me: there is certainly _nothing_ stable
in me. I yielded to temptation when I was a girl at school, and I am
yielding now. I have put myself again into the power of an unscrupulous
woman. But for to-day at least I will be happy; I will banish dull
care."

So she made herself look as bright and pretty as she could in a white
washing dress. She wore a smart sailor hat, and, putting on some white
washing gloves, ran downstairs. On one of the landings she met Edith
Franks.

"Whither away?" asked that young lady.

"I am going to Hampstead to spend the day with friends."

"That is very nice. I know Hampstead well. What part are you going to?"

"Close to the heath: to people of the name of Trevor."

"Not surely to Mrs. Trevor, of Rose View?" exclaimed Edith Franks,
starting back a step and raising her brows as she spoke.

"Yes."

"And do you know her son, that most charming fellow, Maurice Trevor?"

"I know him slightly."

"Oh, but this is really delightful. We have been friends with the
Trevors, Tom and I, ever since we were children. This seems to be quite
a new turn to our friendship, does it not?"

Florence felt herself both cold and stiff. She longed to be friendly
with Edith, who was, she was well aware, all that was kind;
nevertheless, a strange sensation of depression and of coming trouble
was over her.

"She is kind; but she may tempt me to do what is wrong," thought poor
Florence.

"I don't know the Trevors well," she answered. "I have met Mr. Trevor
once or twice, but I have never even seen his mother. His mother has
been kind enough to ask me to spend to-day with her. I will say good-bye
now."

"Be sure you give my love to dear Mrs. Trevor, and remember me to
Maurice. Tell him, with my kind regards, that I commiserate him very
much."

"Why so?" asked Florence.

"Because he has had the bad luck to be adopted by a rich, eccentric old
lady, and he will lose all his personality. Tell him I wouldn't be in
his shoes for anything, and now ta! ta! I see you are dying to be off."

Edith went back to her room, and Florence ran downstairs, entered an
omnibus which would convey her the greater part of the way to Hampstead,
and arrived there a little before ten o'clock. As she was walking up
the little path to the Trevors' cottage, Maurice Trevor came down to
meet her.

"How do you do?" he said, shaking hands with her and taking her
immediately into the house.

Mrs. Trevor was standing in the porch.

"This is Miss Aylmer, mother," said the young man.

Mrs. Trevor held out her hand, looked earnestly into Florence's face,
then drew her towards her and kissed her.

"I am glad to see you, my dear," she said; "my son has told me about
you. Welcome to Rose View; I hope you like the place."

Florence looked around her and gave an exclamation of surprise and
delight. The house was a very small one, but it stood in a perfect bower
of roses: they were climbing all over the house, and blooming in the
garden: there were standard roses, yellow, white, and pink, moss-roses,
the old-fashioned cabbage-rose, and Scotch roses, little white and red
ones.

"I never saw anything like it," said Florence, forgetting herself in her
astonishment and delight.

Mrs. Trevor watched her face.

"She is a nice girl, but she has some trouble behind," thought the widow
to herself.

"We will go round the garden," she said; "it is not time for church yet.
I am not able to go this morning, but Maurice will take you presently.
You have just to cross the heath and you can go to a dear little church,
quite in the depths of the country. I never need change of air here in
my rose-bower. But come: what roses shall I pick for you?"

"I must give Miss Aylmer her flowers, as she is practically my guest,"
said Trevor, coming forward at that moment. He picked a moss-rose bud
and a few Scotch roses, made them into a posy, and gave them to
Florence. She placed the flowers in her belt; her cheeks were already
bright with colour, and her eyes were dewy with happiness. She bent down
several times to sniff the fragrance of the flowers. Mrs. Trevor drew
her out to talk, and soon she was chatting and laughing, and looked like
a girl who had not a care in the world.

"I never saw anything so sweet," she said. "How have you managed to make
all these roses bloom at once?"

"I study roses; they are my specialty. I think roses are the great joy
of my life," said Mrs. Trevor. But as she spoke she glanced at her
stalwart, handsome son, and Florence guessed that he was his mother's
idol, and wondered how she could part with him to Mrs. Aylmer.

"The church bells are beginning to ring," he said suddenly; "would you
like to go to church or would you rather just wander about the heath?"

"I think I would rather stay on the heath this morning," said Florence.
She coloured as she spoke. "I do not feel very churchy," she added.

"All right: we'll have our service out of doors then; we'll be back,
mother, in time for lunch."




CHAPTER XXI.

AN AWKWARD POSITION.


Trevor raised the latch of the gate as he spoke, and Florence and he
went out into what the girl afterwards called an enchanted world.
Florence during that walk was light-hearted as a lark and forgot all her
cares.

Trevor made himself a very agreeable companion. He had from the first
felt a great sympathy for Florence. He was not at that time in love with
her, but he did think her a specially attractive girl, and, believing
that she was sorrowful, and also having a sort of latent feeling that he
himself was doing her an injury by being Mrs. Aylmer's heir, he was more
attentive to her and more sympathetic in his manner than he would
otherwise have been.

They found a shady dell on the heath where they sat and talked of many
things. It was not until it was nearly time to return home, and they saw
the people coming away from the little church down in the vale, that
Trevor looked at his companion and said abruptly: "I do wish you and the
mother could live together. Do you think it could be managed?"

"I don't know," said Florence, starting; "for some things I should like
it."

"I cannot tell you," he continued, flushing slightly as he spoke, "what
a great satisfaction it would be to me. I must be frank with you. I
always feel that I have done you a great injury."

"You certainly have not done me an injury; you have added to the
pleasure of my life," said Florence.

"I do not suppose we shall see a great deal of each other, and I often
wonder why. If I am to be Mrs. Aylmer's heir I shall have to spend most
of my life with her; but then, so long as you are in the world, I ought
not to hold that position."

"Oh, never mind about that," said Florence.

"She is your aunt?"

"She is my aunt by marriage. It does not matter. We don't get on
together. She--she never wishes to see me nor to hear of me."

"But I wonder why; it seems very hard on you. You and your mother are
poor, whilst I am no relation. Why should I usurp your place--in fact,
be your supplanter?"

"You are not. If you did not have the money, someone else would. I
should never be my aunt's heiress."

"And yet she knows you?"

"She did know me."

"Did you ever do anything to offend her?"

"I am afraid I did."

Trevor was on the point of asking "What?" but there was an expression in
Florence's face which stayed the word on his lips. She had turned white
again, and the tired, drawn expression had come to her eyes.

"You must come home now and have lunch," he said; "afterwards I will
take you for another walk, and show you some fresh beauties."

They rose slowly and went back to the house. Lunch was waiting for
them, and during the meal Mrs. Trevor and Maurice talked on many things
which delighted and interested Florence immensely. They were both highly
intelligent, had a passionate love for horticulture, and also were well
read on many other subjects. Florence found some of her school knowledge
now standing her in good stead.

In the course of the meal she mentioned Edith Franks.

Both mother and son laughed when her name was spoken of.

"What! that enthusiastic, silly girl who actually wants to be a doctor?"
cried Mrs. Trevor. "She is a first-rate girl herself, but her ideas
are--"

"You must not say anything against Edith Franks, mother," exclaimed her
son. "For my part, I think she is very plucky. I have no doubt," he
added, "that women doctors can do very good work."

"She is much too learned for me, that is all," replied Mrs. Trevor; "but
I hear she is to undergo her examinations in America. I trust the day
will never come when it will be easy for a woman to obtain her medical
degree in this country. It is horrible to think of anything so
unfeminine."

"I do not think Edith Franks is unfeminine," said Florence. "She has
been awfully kind to me. I think she is experimenting on me now."

"And that you don't like, my dear?"

"She is very good to me," repeated Florence, "but I do not like it."

Mrs. Trevor smiled, and Maurice gave Florence a puzzled, earnest
glance.

"I do wish, mother," he said suddenly, "that you could arrange to have
Miss Aylmer living with you."

"Oh, my dear, it would be much too far, and I know she would not like
it. If she has to work for her living, she must be nearer town."

"I am afraid it would not do," said Florence, with a sigh; "but, of
course, I--I should love it."

"You have not anything to do yet, have you?" asked Trevor.

"Not exactly." She coloured and looked uncomfortable.

He gave her a keen glance, and once more the thought flashed through
Mrs. Trevor's mind: "The girl is hiding a secret; she has a sorrow: what
is she trying to conceal? I wish I could draw her secret from her."

The meal over, Trevor and Florence once more wandered on the heath. The
day, which had been so sunny and bright in the morning, was now slightly
overcast, and they had not walked half a mile before rain overtook them.
They had quite forgotten to provide themselves with umbrellas, and
Florence's thin dress was in danger of becoming wet through.

As they walked quickly back now, they were overtaken by a man who said
to Florence: "I beg your pardon, but may I offer you this umbrella?"

Before she could reply, the stranger looked at Trevor and uttered an
exclamation.

"Why, Tom!" cried Trevor. He shook hands heartily with him, and
introduced him to Florence: "Mr. Franks--Miss Aylmer."

"Aylmer?" said the young man; "are you called Florence Aylmer?" He
looked full at the girl.

"Yes, and you have a sister called Edith Franks," she answered.

All the colour had left her face, her eyes were full of a sort of dumb
entreaty. Trevor gazed at her in astonishment.

"You must come back and see my mother, Franks," he continued, turning
again to the young man. "It is very kind of you to offer your umbrella
to Miss Aylmer, but I think you must share it with her."

There was no help for it. Florence had to walk under Mr. Franks's
umbrella; she had seldom found herself in a more awkward position.

"Of course," she thought, "he will speak of the manuscript."

She rushed recklessly into conversation in order to avoid this, but in
vain. During the first pause Mr. Franks said: "I have good news for you,
Miss Aylmer. I showed your story to my chief, Anderson, last night. I
begged of him to read it at once. He did so to oblige me. He will take
it for the _Argonaut_. I thought you would be glad. He wants you to call
at the office to-morrow, when he will arrange terms with you.--Forgive
us, won't you, Trevor, for talking business; but it was such a chance,
coming across Miss Aylmer like this, and I thought she would like to
know as soon as possible what a great success she has made."

Trevor glanced at Florence in some astonishment.

"Does this mean that you write?" he said, "and that you have had an
article accepted?"

"A very promising article accepted extremely willingly," said Franks.
"Miss Aylmer deserves your hearty congratulations, Trevor. She is a very
fortunate young lady indeed."

"I know I am, and I am grateful," said Florence.

Trevor again looked at her.

"She is not happy. What can be wrong?" he said to himself.

"Have you ever published anything before?" continued Franks.

"Never."

"Well, you are lucky. Your style--I do not want to flatter you, but your
style is quite formed. You must have been a very successful essay-writer
at school."

"No, I never wrote much," said poor Florence. "I--I hate writing," she
said the next moment. The words burst impetuously from her lips.

"By all that's wonderful! what do you mean by that? Surely it would be
absolutely impossible for anyone who hated writing to do so with your
ease and fluency!"

"We are nearly home now, and Miss Aylmer seems very tired," said Trevor.
"Will you come in, Franks?"

"No, thanks; I must be getting home. You will call at our office
to-morrow, Miss Aylmer?"

"Thank you," said Florence; "at what hour?"

"I shall be in and will introduce you to my chief if you can come at
twelve o'clock. Well, good-bye for the present." He raised his hat to
Florence, favoured her with a keen glance, said good-bye to Trevor, and
turned away.

"I must congratulate you," said Trevor, as the young man and the girl
walked up the little path to the house.

"What for?" she asked. She raised her eyes full of dumb misery to his
face.

"For having won a success, and a very honourable one."

"Oh, don't ask me any more," she said; "please, please don't speak of
it. I thought I should be so happy to-day."

"But does not this make you happy? I do not understand."

"It makes me terribly miserable. I cannot explain. Please don't ask me."

"I won't; only just let me say that, whatever it is, I am sorry for
you."

He held out his hand. The next moment he had taken hers. Her hand, which
had been trembling, lay still in his palm. He clasped his own strong,
firm hand over it.

"I wish I could help you," he said, in a low voice, and then they both
entered the house.

Mrs. Trevor, through the little latticed window in the tiny
drawing-room, had witnessed this scene.

"What?" she said to herself. "Is my boy really falling in love with that
nice, interesting, but unhappy girl? Of course, I shall not oppose him;
but I almost wish it were not to be."




CHAPTER XXII.

THE STORY ACCEPTED.


Tea was ready prepared. The sun came out after the heavy shower, and
Florence found the Trevors even more kind and agreeable than they had
been at lunch. When the meal was over, Trevor called his mother out of
the room. He spoke to her for a few moments alone, and then she
re-entered the little drawing-room.

Florence was seated by the open window, looking out. She was resting her
chin on the palm of her hand as she gazed across the rose-garden. At
that moment Trevor went quietly by. He stooped to pick one or two roses;
then he turned and looked at Florence. Florence smiled very faintly, and
a rush of colour came into Trevor's face. Mrs. Trevor then came up to
Florence and spoke.

"I do it because my son wishes it," she said, "and I also do it because
I take an interest in you. He has told me of your great success in the
literary market. You, young and inexperienced, have had an article
accepted by so great a magazine as the _Argonaut_. You scarcely know
what an immense success you have won. I did not, of course, understand
what your occupation in London was likely to be; but if you are to be a
writer, why not come and live with me here? I have a nice little room
which I can offer you, and this drawing-room will always be at your
disposal, for I sit as a rule in my dining-room. You can go into town
when you want to, and you will make me happy, and--and I think Maurice
would like it."

As Mrs. Trevor spoke she looked full at the girl, and Florence found
herself trembling and even colouring as Trevor's name was mentioned.

"Will you think over it, my dear," said Mrs. Trevor, "and let me know?"

"I will think over it and let you know. You are very kind to me. I
scarcely know how to thank you enough," replied Florence.

"As to the terms," continued Mrs. Trevor, "they would be very moderate.
My cottage is my own, and I have few expenses. I could take you in and
make you comfortable for fifteen shillings a week."

"Oh!" said Florence. She thought of that money which was getting daily
less. She looked into the lovely garden and her heart swelled within
her. Her first impulse was to throw her arms round Mrs. Trevor's neck:
to say it would be peace, comfort, and happiness to live with her. She
would save money, and her worst anxieties would be removed. But she
restrained herself. There was a heavy weight pressing against her heart,
and even the widow's kindness scarcely touched her.

"I will let you know. You are more than kind," she said.

A moment afterwards she had said good-bye to Mrs. Trevor, and Maurice
and she were hurrying down the hill to meet the omnibus which was to
convey the girl back to Prince's Mansions.

"My mother has told you what we both wish?" he said. "To be honest with
you, I feel that we owe you something. I am usurping your place; I can
never get over that fact."

"I wish you wouldn't think of it, for it is not the truth," said
Florence. "I have told you already that even if you did not exist I
should never inherit a farthing of my aunt's money, and what is more,"
she added, the crimson dyeing her cheeks, "I wouldn't take it if she
offered it to me."

"You are a strange girl," he said. He bade her good-bye as she entered
the omnibus, and then turned to walk up Hampstead Hill once again.

The next day at twelve o'clock Florence Aylmer, neatly dressed, and
looking bright and purposeful, and no longer overpowered by any sense of
remorse, appeared at Mr. Anderson's office. She was received with the
politeness which is ever accorded to the successful. The very clerks in
the outer office seemed to know that she was not to be confounded with
the ordinary young person who appears daily and hourly offering
unsaleable wares. Florence's wares were saleable--more than saleable.
She was ushered into a room to wait for a moment, and then very soon
Franks appeared on the scene.

"How do you do, Miss Aylmer?" he said, coming up in his quick way, and
shaking hands with her. "I am very pleased to see you. Will you come
with me now, as I should like to introduce you to Mr. Anderson?"

They left the waiting-room together, went up some broad stairs, and
entered a very spacious apartment on the first floor. Here an elderly
man, of tall presence, with grey hair and a hooked nose, was waiting to
receive them. He stood up when Florence appeared, bowed to her, and
then held out his hand.

"Will you seat yourself, Miss Aylmer?" he said.

Florence did so. Mr. Anderson stood on the hearth and looked her all
over. He had a keen, hawk-like glance, and his scrutiny was very
penetrating. Florence found herself colouring under his gaze. She had
been full of _sangfroid_ and almost indifference when she entered the
office, but now once again that terrible, overpowering sense of guilt
was visiting her.

Mr. Anderson was a Scotchman to the backbone, and a man of very few
words.

"I read your story," he said; "it is sharp and to the point. You have a
nice style and an original way of putting things. I accepted your story
for the _Argonaut_; it may not appear for some months, but it will
certainly be published before the end of the year. We had better now
arrange terms. What do you think your manuscript worth?"

"Nothing at all," was Florence's unguarded answer.

This was so unexpected that both Franks and the editor smiled.

"You are a very young writer indeed," said Mr. Anderson. "You will soon
learn to appraise your wares at their true value. As this is your first
effort I will pay you two guineas a thousand words. There are, I think,
from five to six thousand words in the manuscript. You will receive a
cheque therefore, say, for twelve guineas on the day of publication."

Florence gave a short gasp.

"It really is not worth it," she said again.

Franks felt inclined to say: "Don't make such a fool of yourself," but
he restrained himself.

Mr. Anderson now drew his own chair forward and looked at Florence.

"I should be glad," he said, "to receive further contributions. You have
doubtless many ideas, and you have at present the great and inestimable
charm of novelty. You write in a fresh way. We are always looking for
work of the sort you have given us. I should be sorry if you took your
stories to anyone else. Would it be possible to make an arrangement for
us to receive all your contributions, say, for twelve months?"

"I assure you," here interrupted Franks, "that this is so unusual an
offer that you would be very silly indeed, Miss Aylmer, to reject it."

Florence gazed from one to the other in growing alarm.

"What I mean is this," said Anderson, noticing her perturbation and
pitying her supposed innocence. "When your story appears it will attract
the attention of the critics. It will receive, beyond doubt, some very
favourable comments, and other editors, who equally with myself are
looking out for what is fresh and novel, will write to you and ask you
to work for them. I do not wish in any way to injure your future
prospects; but I think you would do better for yourself, and eventually
increase the value of your contributions, by giving us your work during
the first year. When can we find room for this first story of Miss
Aylmer's, Franks?"

Franks thought for a moment.

"There is no reason why it should not appear in November," he said. "We
could dispense with illustrations--at least one illustration will be
quite sufficient."

"Very well; it shall appear then. You will soon receive proofs, Miss
Aylmer; and can you let me have another small story of about the same
length in a month from now? If your first story is liked we can find
room for another in December. You will think over my proposal. I do not
want you to hurry nor to appear to coerce you in any way, but we shall
be proud to be the publishers who introduced you to, I hope, a very
large audience."

Mr. Anderson here got up, and Florence, seeing that the interview was at
an end, bowed and went away. Franks accompanied her downstairs.

"You will, of course, accept Mr. Anderson's offer?" he said.

"Of cours

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