Part 51 (1/2)
”MY DEAR FLORENCE--
”You will doubtless, long ere this, have been told of the fearful blow which the late Mrs. Aylmer of Aylmer's Court has inflicted on us all. Kind as we have been to her, and faithfully as we have served her--I allude especially here to myself--we have been cut off without a farthing whereas two monstrous establishments have been left the benefit of her wealth. The clergyman, Mr. Edwards, is responsible for this act of what I call sacrilege. She made him write a will for her just after poor Mr. Wilts.h.i.+re had departed. It is, I believe, quite in proper form, and there is not a loophole of escape.
Mr. Edwards knew what he was about. Mrs. Aylmer gave her money, as she thought, back to G.o.d: a very queer way of doing charity--to leave those nearest to her to starve.
”However, my dear Florence, to come to the point, I, who have spent the last five years of my life absolutely devoted to this woman, serving her hand and foot, day and night, at all times and all seasons, have not even had a ten-pound note left to me for my pains. It is true that I shall receive my salary, which happens to be a very good one, up to the end of the present quarter. After that, as far as I am concerned, I might as well never have known Aylmer's Court nor its mistress. Fortunately I was able to feather my nest to a very small extent while with her, and have a few hundred pounds with which to face the world.
”Now, Florence, I hope you are somewhat prepared for what is about to follow. It is this: I shall be obliged in the future to use my talent for my own aggrandis.e.m.e.nt. I find that it is a very marketable commodity. A few months' use of it has placed you in great comfort; it has also brought you fame, and, further, a very excellent husband. What the said future husband will say when the _denouement_ is revealed to him--as of course revealed it will be--is more than I can say. But you must face the fact that I can no longer supply you with stories or essays. I _myself_ will write my own stories, and send them _myself_ to the different papers, and the golden sovereigns, my dear, will roll into _my_ pocket, and not into _yours_. You will naturally say: 'How will you do this, and face the shame of your actions in the past?' But the fact is, I am not at all ashamed, nor do I mind confessing exactly what I have done. My talent is my own, and it is my opinion that the world will crowd after me all the more because I have done this daring thing, and you, my poor little understudy for the time being, will be my understudy no longer. I take the part of leading lady once for all _myself_. I am coming up to London to-morrow, and will call to see you, as, on consideration, I think that fourth story which you are preparing for the _Argonaut_ might as well appear with my name to it.
”Yours very sincerely,
”BERTHA KEYS.”
Florence perused this letter two or three times; then she put it in her pocket and entered her bed-room. She did not quite know what she was doing. She felt a little giddy, but there was a queer, unaccountable sense of relief all over her. On her desk lay her own neat copy of the story which she was preparing for the _Argonaut_. By the side of the desk also was quite a pile of letters from different publishers offering her work and good pay. These letters Tom Franks insisted on her either taking no notice of or merely writing to decline the advantageous offers. She took them up now.
”Messrs. So-and-so would be glad to see Miss Aylmer. They could offer her....” And then came terms which would have made the mouths of most girls water. Or Florence received a letter asking her if she would undertake to write three or four stories for such a paper, the terms to be what she herself liked to ask. She looked at them all wistfully. It is true she had not yet lighted a fire in her room, but she put a match to it now, in order to burn the publishers' letters. The story she was copying was about half-done. She had meant to finish it from Bertha's ma.n.u.script before she went out. She smiled to herself as she looked.
”I need never finish it now,” she thought.
Just as this thought came to her she heard a tap at her door. It was a messenger with a note. She told him to wait, and opened it. It was from Franks.
”I quite forgot when I saw you an hour ago to ask you to let me have ma.n.u.script of the next story without fail this evening.
Can you send it now by messenger, or shall he call again for it within a couple of hours? This is urgent.
”THOMAS FRANKS.”
Florence sat down and wrote a brief reply.
”I am very sorry, but you cannot have ma.n.u.script to-night.
”FLORENCE AYLMER.”
The messenger departed with this note, and Florence dressed herself to go out, and she went quickly downstairs. She walked until she saw the special omnibus which she was looking for. She was taken straight to Hampstead, and she walked up the steep hill until she found the little cottage which she had visited months ago in the late summer-time.
Florence went to the door, and a neat servant with an apple-blossom face opened it.
”Is Mrs. Trevor in?” asked Florence.
”Yes, miss; what name shall I say?”
Florence gave her name: ”Miss Florence Aylmer.”
She was immediately ushered into the snug drawing-room, bright with firelight. She shut her eyes, and a feeling of pain went through her heart.
”The way of transgressors is very, very hard,” she thought. ”Shall I ever keep straight? What a miserable character I must be!”
Just then Mrs. Trevor entered the room. She had not been pleased with Florence; she had not been pleased with her manner to her son. Mothers guess things quickly, and she had guessed Maurice's secret many months ago.
Florence held out her hand wistfully, and looked full at the little widow.
”I have come to speak to you,” she said. ”I want to know if you will”--her lips trembled--”advise me.”
”Sit down, my dear,” said Mrs. Trevor. She motioned Florence to a seat, but the girl did not take it.