Part 47 (2/2)

”Soon after he left, that wicked young man,” she resumed, ”poor Susan fell ill. She got worse and worse, and what apparently was only a slight attack soon a.s.sumed serious dimensions, and there is little hope of her life, and Bertha tells me that she has altered her will or is about to alter it. I cannot quite make out whether it is done or whether it is about to be done; but anyhow, Flo, you and I go back to Aylmer's Court to-night. By hook or by crook we will show ourselves, my love, and I will take the responsibility of leading you into your aunt's room, and you shall go on your knees and beg her forgiveness. That is what I have come about, Florence. It is not too late. Poor Bertha, I can see, is quite on our side. It is not too late, my love; we will catch the very next train.”

”You don't know what you are saying, mother. It is absolutely impossible for me to go.”

”My dearest Flo, why?”

”Let me tell you something. You blame Mr. Trevor.”

”I always blame ungrateful people,” said Mrs. Aylmer, putting on a most virtuous air.

”And yet,” said Florence--”yes, I will speak. Do you know who the worthless girl was for whom he gave up great wealth and a high position?”

”How can I tell? I don't want to hear her name.”

”_I_ was that girl, mother.”

”What do you mean?”

”And Bertha knew it,” continued Florence; ”she knew it well. Oh, I dare not say much against Bertha, but I won't have Mr. Trevor abused. He found out, mother, that, worthless as I am, he loved me. Oh, mother, pity me! pity me!”

Poor Florence suddenly fell on her knees. She bowed her head on the table and burst into tears. It was not often she cried. Mrs. Aylmer did not remember seeing Florence weep since that dreadful morning when they had both fled from Cherry Court in disgrace.

”Flo,” she said, ”Flo!”

”Pity me, Mummy; pity me!” said Florence.

The next instant the little Mummy's arms were round her.

”Oh, I am so glad you have a heart!” said the little Mummy, ”and of course I don't blame him for loving you, but I do not understand it.

Bertha could not have known. She said she was quite a low sort of person. Oh, Flo, my love, this is splendid! You will marry him, of course! I don't believe Susan has altered her will. You will just get the riches in the very best possible way as his wife. I always said he was a _most_ charming young man. It was Bertha who turned me against him. She is awfully clever, Flo, and if I really thought----”

”I dare not say anything against Bertha, mother. But I cannot go to Aylmer's Court; you must not ask it. I am engaged now to Tom Franks, and I won't break my engagement off. I am a very, very unhappy girl.”

CHAPTER XLII.

BERTHA KEYS DEFEATED.

There is little doubt that Mrs. Aylmer was very ill. Step by step an attack, which was apparently at first of little moment, became serious and then dangerous. The cold became pneumonia, the pneumonia became double pneumonia, and now there was a hard fight for life. Nurses were summoned, doctors were requisitioned, everything that wealth could do was employed for the relief and the recovery of the sick woman. But there are times when Death laughs at wealth, with all its contrivances and all its hopes: when Death takes very little heed of what friends say or what doctors do. Death has his own duty to perform, and Mrs. Aylmer's time had come. Notwithstanding the most recent remedies for the fell disease, notwithstanding the care of the best nurses London could supply and the skill of the cleverest doctors, Death entered that sick-chamber and stood by that woman's pillow and whispered to her that her hour had come.

Mrs. Aylmer, propped up in her bed so that she might breathe better, her face ghastly with the terrible exertion, called Bertha to her side. She could scarcely speak, but she managed to convey her meaning to the girl.

”I am very bad; I know I shall not recover.”

”You have to make your will over again,” said Bertha, who was as cool as cool could be in this emergency. Not one of the nurses could be more collected or calm than Bertha. She herself would have made a splendid nurse, for she had tact and sympathy, and the sort of voice which never grated on the ear. The doctors were almost in love with her: they thought they had never seen so capable a girl, so grave, so quiet, so suitably dressed, so invaluable in all emergencies.

Mrs. Aylmer could scarcely bear Bertha out of her sight, and the doctors said to themselves: ”Small wonder!”

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