The Time of Roses

"I don't want the time to consider," said Maurice, whose face now was white with suppressed feeling. "Let your lawyer come now, Mrs. Aylmer; my mind is made up."

"I will not take your decision now, you foolish boy. You are bound, because of my kindness in the past, to take three months to consider this matter. But leave me; I am tired."

CHAPTER XXVI.

AT AYLMER'S COURT

Aylmer's Court was in the full perfection of its autumn beauty when Sir John Wallis, accompanied by Kitty Sharston and her father, drove up the winding avenue as Mrs. Aylmer's guests. A private omnibus from Aylmer's Court was sent to the railway station to meet them, and their luggage was now piled up high on the roof.

Sir John Wallis did not look a day older than when we last saw him in all the glories of his own house, surrounded by the girls whom he had made happy.

Kitty was seated beside her father and opposite to her old friend. She looked sweet and bright, with that gentle, high-bred, intelligent expression which she always wore. Kitty's heart was no longer empty or sad. Her beloved father had come back to live with her, she hoped, as long as life lasted. Her old friend, Sir John Wallis, had only recently declared her his heiress; and, although Kitty would never leave her father for anything that mere money could offer, she was glad to feel that he was no longer anxious about her future.

As to Kitty, herself, however rich she might be, she would always be simple-hearted and think of wealth in the right spirit; for what it could do to promote the happiness of others, and not merely as a means of increasing her own splendour or silly pleasures.

"You have two fathers, you know, Kitty," said Sir John, as they drove up the avenue. "You are bound to be a very circumspect young lady, as you are under such strict surveillance."

"You need not suppose for a single moment that I am the least afraid of either of you," was her answer, and she gave her head a little toss which was not in the least saucy, but was very pretty to see.

Colonel Sharston smiled and turned to his friend.

"How is it that we have accepted this invitation?" he said. "I do not know Mrs. Aylmer. What sort of woman is she?"

"Oh, a very estimable person. I have known her for many years. I felt that we could not do less than give her a few days of our company, and Aylmer's Court is a beautiful place."

So it truly was – the park undulating away to the edge of the landscape, and acres and acres of forest-land being visible in every direction. There was a lake a little way to the left of the house, on which a small pleasure-boat was now being rowed. In that boat sat a girl dressed in dark blue, with a sailor hat on her head. Kitty bent forward; then she glanced at Sir John Wallis and suddenly squeezed his hand.

"Do you know who is rowing on the lake?" she said.

"Who, my dear? Why, Kitty, you have turned quite white."

"I met her before, but, do you know, I had absolutely forgotten it. She is Mrs. Aylmer's companion, and I believe her right hand."

"But who is she, dear? What is the matter? You look quite ill."

"Don't you remember Bertha Keys?"

"Miss Keys; why, that was the girl who behaved so badly at the time when I offered my scholarship, was it not?"

"The very same girl," said Kitty.

"And what do you want me to do regarding her, Kitty?"

"I do not know. I don't want to do her any injury. Don't be surprised when you meet her, that is all, and – "

"Kitty, your heart is a great deal too tender. You ought not to belong to this evil world at all," said Sir John, while her father looked at Kitty and asked for an explanation.

"Another time, father. All Sir John has to do is to treat Miss Keys as if he had never met her before."

"Well, I daresay I can manage more than that for your sake, Kitty; and now, here we are at the house."

Mrs. Aylmer and her adopted son, Maurice Trevor, were standing on the steps to meet their guests. The moment she saw Trevor, Kitty smiled and took an eager step forward to meet him. He held out his hand.

"This is a real pleasure," she said. "I had forgotten all about your being here. Do you remember Dawlish?"

"Of course I do," he answered. "I do not easily forget pleasant occasions."

Mrs. Aylmer now turned to Kitty, took her hand in hers, and, turning her gently round, looked into her face. It was a good face, eyes of the sweetest grey, delicate colouring, an intelligent forehead, lips true and pure and honest. Mrs. Aylmer scarcely knew why she sighed, and why a wish rose up in her heart that she had never felt before: that Maurice, the boy she truly loved, should really like and marry this girl. Just for the moment she forgot all about Kitty's future circumstances; she welcomed her for herself.

"Would you like to go for a walk before dinner?" said Trevor. "Miss Keys is rowing on the lake; we will go to meet her."

"I should be delighted. May I go, father?" said Kitty.

"Certainly, my love."

"Then will you two gentlemen come into the house?" said Mrs. Aylmer. She nodded to Trevor, who walked off immediately with Kitty. As soon as they got out of ear-shot, Kitty faced her companion.

"I never knew that I should meet you here. I am so glad. I heard from Florence a few days ago; she said you were so good and kind to her when you were in London. I must thank you now in her name."

"I should like to be kind to her, but in reality I was able to do only very little for her," said Trevor. "Does she write often to you? How is she getting on?"

"She seems to me to be getting on in the most wonderful way. She has quite a considerable amount of literary work to do. Two of her stories have already been accepted, and she is asked to do a third, and I have no doubt that other work also will fall in her way. She will now be able to support herself comfortably. I cannot tell you what a relief it is to me."

Trevor smiled.

"She is wonderfully clever and interesting," he said. "I am glad she is your friend. She has talked to me about you and – "

Just at that moment Bertha Keys, having moored her little boat came to meet them.

She came straight up to Kitty and spoke in a defiant voice, and as if she were talking to a perfect stranger.

"How do you do?" she said. "I suppose I must introduce myself. My name is Miss Keys. I am Mrs. Aylmer's companion. I shall be pleased to do everything I can to promote your comfort while at Aylmer's Court. Have you been here long?"

"Only a few moments," answered Kitty, taking her cue, "and Mr. Trevor has most kindly offered to show me round the place. I am so tired of sitting still that it is delightful to move about again."

"Then I won't keep you. Dinner is at half-past seven, and the dressing-gong sounds at seven. Mrs. Aylmer's maid will help you to dress, Miss Sharston – that is, unless you have brought your own."

"Oh, I don't keep a maid," said Kitty merrily; "I hate maids, and in any case I am not rich enough to afford one."

Miss Keys raised her brows in a somewhat supercilious way.

CHAPTER XXVII.

BERTHA'S SECRET

The two young people walked about, talking of nothing in particular, until at last it was time for them both to return to the house. Kitty went up to her own room, managed to dress before Mrs. Aylmer's maid appeared, and then proceeded to the drawing-room. There she found Bertha alone. She went straight up to her.

"Do you wish it known?" she said.

"Wish what known? I do not understand," replied Bertha.

Bertha was looking her very best in a black lace dress with some Gloire de Dijon roses in her belt. She raised her eyes and fixed them insolently on Kitty.

"Do I wish what known?" she repeated.

"Why, that I met you, that I knew you, you understand. You must understand. I thought, as you were here, that it would injure you if I spoke of it."

Bertha suddenly took hold of Kitty's hands and drew her into the recess by the window.

"Keep it a secret," she said; "pretend you never knew me. Don't tell your father; don't tell Sir John."

"But Sir John remembers you – he must remember you. You know what happened at Cherry Court School. How can he possibly forget?"

"I shall be ruined if it is known. Mrs. Aylmer must not know. Get Sir John to keep it a secret; you must – you shall."

"I have asked him not to speak of it; but I must understand how you came to be here. I will say nothing to-night. To-morrow I will speak to you," said Kitty.

Just then other people entered the drawing-room, and the two girls immediately separated.

Sir John, having taken his cue from Kitty, treated Miss Keys as a stranger. She was very daring and determined, and she looked better than she had ever looked in her life before. Her eyes were shining and her clear complexion grew white and almost dazzling. No circumstance could ever provoke colour into her cheeks, but she always looked her very best at night, and no dress became her like black lace, so dazzlingly fair were her neck and arms, so brilliant her plentiful hair.

Sir John and Colonel Sharston looked at her more than once – Sir John with that knowledge in his eyes which Bertha knew quite well he possessed, and Colonel Sharston with undisguised admiration.

In the course of the evening the Colonel beckoned Kitty to his side.

"I like the appearance of that girl," he said; "but she has a strange face: she must have a history. Why are we not to mention to Mrs. Aylmer that you already knew her, Kitty?"

"I will tell you another time, father," answered Kitty. Then she added, in a low voice: "Oh, I am sorry for her, very sorry. It might ruin her, father, if it were known; you would not ruin her, would you?"

"Of course not, my dear child, and I will certainly respect your wish."

The next day, after breakfast, Kitty found herself alone with Bertha. Bertha was feeding some pigeons in a dove-cote not far from the house. Kitty ran up to her and touched her on the arm.

"I have made up my mind," said Kitty.

"Yes?" answered Bertha.

There was a fresh note in Kitty's voice – a note of resolve. Her eyes looked full of determination; she was holding herself very erect. Bertha had never been worried by the thought of Kitty: a girl in her opinion so insignificant. Now she looked at her with a new feeling of terror and also respect.

"I don't understand," she said; "in what way have you made up your mind?"

"I have spoken to Sir John and also to my father. They know – they cannot help knowing – that I knew you, and that my dear friend, Sir John Wallis, knew you some years ago; but we do not want to injure you, so we will not say a word about it. You can rest quite content; we will not talk of your past."

"In particular you will not talk of my past to Mr. Trevor?"

"No, not even to Mr. Trevor. In short," continued Kitty, "we have made up our minds to respect your secret, but on a condition."

"Yes?" said Bertha. She spoke in a questioning tone.

"As long as you behave in a perfectly straightforward way; as long as I have no reason to feel that you are doing anything underhand to anybody's name, we will respect your secret and leave you undisturbed in the possession of your present post. I think," continued Kitty, "that I partly understand matters. You have come here without telling Mrs. Aylmer what occurred at Cherry Court School and at Cherry Court Park; you don't want her to know how terribly you injured my great friend, Florence Aylmer. If you will leave Florence alone now, if you will do nothing further in any way to injure her, I and those I belong to will respect your secret. But if I find that you are tampering with Florence's happiness, then my duty will be plain."

"What will your duty be?" said Bertha. As she spoke she held out a lump of sugar to a pretty white fantail which came flying to receive it. She raised her eyes as she spoke and looked full at Kitty.

"I shall tell what I know," said Kitty. "I think that is all." She turned on her heel and walked away.

CHAPTER XXVIII.

A SMILING WORLD

Things were going well now with Florence Aylmer. She was earning money, and it was unnecessary for her to live any longer in the top attic of Prince's Mansions. She had got over her first discomfort; her conscience no longer pricked her; she took an interest in the situation, and sometimes laughed softly to herself. She knew that she was losing a good deal: that the worth and stability of her character were being slowly undermined. But she was winning success: the world was smiling at her just because she was successful, and she resolved to go on now, defying fate.

She wrote often to her mother and to Kitty Sharston, and told both her mother and Kitty of her successes. She never wrote to Bertha except about business. Bertha as a rule, enclosed directed envelopes to herself, so that Florence's writing should not be seen by Mrs. Aylmer or Trevor or any guests who might be staying in the house. Bertha was very wise in her generation, and when she did a wrong thing she knew at least how to do that wrong thing cleverly.

Florence was now quite friendly with Edith Franks. Edith took an interest in her; she still believed that there was something behind the scenes – something which she could not quite fathom – but at the same time she fully and with an undivided heart believed in Florence's great genius, as did also her brother Tom.

By Edith's advice Florence secured the room next to hers, and the girls were now constantly together. Tom often dropped in during the evenings, and took them many times to the play.

Florence began to own that life could be enjoyable even with a heavy conscience and tarnished honour. She was shocked with herself for feeling so. She knew that she had fallen a good many steps lower than she had fallen long ago when she was an inmate of Cherry Court School; nevertheless, there seemed no hope or chance of going back. She had to go forward and trust to her secret never being discovered.

Early in November, or, rather, the latter end of October, her first story was published in the Argonaut. It was sufficiently striking, terse, and original to receive immediate attention from more than one good review. She was spoken of as a young writer of great promise, and a well-known critic took the trouble to write a short paper on her story. This mention gave her, as Tom assured her, a complete success. She was quoted in several society journals, and one well-known paper asked for her photograph. All the expectations of the Argonaut were more than realised, and some people said that Florence was the coming woman, and that her writings would be quite as popular as those of the best-known American fiction writers. Hers was the first short story of any promise which had appeared in the English magazines for some time. The next from her pen was eagerly awaited, and it was decided that it was to be published in the December number.

Bertha, having provided Florence with the story, she carefully re-wrote it in her own hand, and it was sent to the editor. It was a better story than the first, but more critical. There was a cruel note about it. It was harrowing. It seemed to go right down into the heart, and to pierce it with a note of pain. It was a wonderful story for a girl of Florence's age to have written. The editor was charmed.

"I don't like the tone of the story," he said to Franks; "I don't think that I should particularly care to have its author for my wife or daughter, but its genius is undoubted. That girl will make a very big mark. We have been looking for someone like her for a long time. We have had no big stars in our horizon. She may do anything if she goes on as well as she has begun."

"And yet she does not look specially clever," said Franks, in a contemplative voice. "Her speech is nothing at all remarkable; in fact, in conversation I think her rather dull than otherwise."

"I was taken with her face on the whole," said the editor; "it was strong, I think, and, with all our knowledge, we can never tell what is inside a brain. She at least has a remarkable one, Franks. We must make much of her: I don't want her to be snapped up by other editors. We must raise her terms. I will give her three guineas a thousand words for this new story."

Franks called upon his sister and Florence Aylmer on the evening of the day when the editor of the Argonaut made this remark: he found them both in his sister's comfortable room. Florence was reclining on the sofa, and Edith was busily engaged over some of her biological specimens.

"Oh, dear!" said Franks, as he entered the room; "why do you bring those horrors home, Edith?"

"They are all right; I keep them in spirit," she replied. "Don't interrupt me; go and talk to Florence: she is in a bad humour this evening."

"In a bad humour, are you?" said Franks. He drew a chair up, and sat at the foot of Florence's sofa.

She was nicely dressed, her hair was fashionably arranged, she had lost that look of hunger which had made her face almost painful to see, and she received Franks with a coolness which was new-born within her.

"I don't know why you should be depressed," he said; "anyhow, I hope to have the great pleasure of driving the evil spirits away. I have come with good news."

"Indeed!" answered Florence.

"Yes; my editor, Mr. Anderson, is so pleased with your second story, 'The Judas Tree,' that he is going to raise his terms. You are to receive three guineas a thousand words for your manuscript. It is, I think, exactly six thousand words in length. He has asked me to hand you a cheque to-night. Will you accept it?"

As Franks spoke, he took out his pocket-book and handed Florence a cheque for eighteen guineas.

"You will be a rich girl before long," he said.

"It seems like it," she answered. She glanced at the cheque without any additional colour coming to her face, and laid it quietly on a little table by her side.

"And now, Miss Aylmer, there is something I specially want you to do for me. I hope you will not refuse it."

"I will certainly do what I can," she answered.

"It is this. The Argonaut is, of course, our monthly magazine. It holds the very first position amongst the six-pennies, and has, as you doubtless know, an enormous circulation. You will very soon be the fashion. We are about to issue a weekly paper, a sort of review. We trust it will eclipse even the Spectator and the Saturday, and we want a paper from your pen. We want it to be on a special subject – a subject which is likely to cause attention. Can you and will you do it? Anderson begged of me to put the question to you, and I do so also on my own account."

"But what subject do you want me to write upon?" said Florence, feeling sick and faint, and yet not knowing at first how to reply.

"The subject is to be about women as they are. They are coming to the front, and I want you to talk about them just as you please. You may be satirical or not, as it strikes your fancy. I want you in especial to attack them with regard to the æsthetic craze which is so much in fashion now. If you like to show them that they look absolutely foolish in their greenery-yallery gowns, and their hair done up in a wisp, and all the rest of the thing, why, do so; then you can throw in a note about a girl like my sister."

"Oh, come!" exclaimed Edith, from her distant table, "that would be horribly unfair."

"Anyhow, I want you to write about woman in her improved aspects; that is the main thing," said Franks. "Will you do it or will you not?"

Florence thought for a wild moment. It would be impossible for Bertha to help her with this paper. She could not get information or subject-matter in time. Dare she do it?

"I would rather not," she said.

Franks face fell.

"That is scarcely kind," he said; "you simply must do it."

"You will not refuse Tom," said Edith, who had apparently not been listening, but who now jumped up and came forward. "What is it, Tom? What do you want Florence to do?"

Tom briefly explained matters.

"It is for our new venture," he said. "Miss Aylmer is scarcely the fashion yet, but she soon will be. It is to be a signed article – 'Woman in Her Many Crazes' can be the title. No one can know more on the matter than she does."

"Oh, I'll prime you up with facts, if that is all," said Edith; "you must do it: it would be most ungenerous and unkind to refuse Tom after the way he has brought you to the front."

"But I must refuse," said Florence. She rose from the sofa; her face looked pale with desperation.

"That horrid secret, whatever it is, is beginning to awake once more," thought the astute Edith to herself. She looked at Florence with what Tom called her scientific face.

"Sit down," she said, "sit down. Why should you not do it?"

"Because I am no good at all with that class of paper."

"But your style will be invaluable, and you need not say much," said Franks. "We want just the same simple terse, purely Saxon style. We want one or two of your ideas. You need not make it three thousand words long: it does not really matter. You will be well paid. I have the editor's permission to offer you twelve guineas. Surely you will not refuse such a valuable cheque."

Florence looked with almost vacant eyes at the cheque which was lying on the table near her. The whole thing seemed like black magic.

"I suppose I must try," she said; "I have never written any prose worth reading in my life. You will be dreadfully disappointed; I know you will."

"I am quite certain we shall not be disappointed; anyhow, I am going to risk it. You must not go back on your promise. Write your paper to-morrow morning when you are fresh; then post it to me in the evening. Good-bye. I am awfully obliged to you."

The young journalist took his departure before Florence had time to realise what she had done. She heard his steps descending the stairs, and then turned with lack-leisure eyes to Edith.

"What have I done?" she cried.

"Done?" said Edith, in a tone of some impatience. "Why, your duty, of course. You could not refuse Tom after all his kindness to you. Where would you be but for him – but for me? Do you suppose that, just because you are clever, you would have reached the position you have done if it had not been for my brother? You must do your very best for him."

"Oh, don't scold me, please, Edith," said poor Florence.

"I don't mean to; but really your queer ways of accepting Tom's favours exasperate me now and then."

"Perhaps I had better go to my own room," said Florence. "I am in your way, am I not?"

"When you talk nonsense you are. When you are sensible I delight to have you here. Lie down on the sofa once more, and go on reading this last novel of George Eliot's: it will put some grit into you."

Edith returned once more to her task, lit a strong lamp which she had got for this special purpose, put on her magnifying-glasses, adjusted her microscope, and set to work.

Florence knew that she was lost to all externals for the next hour or so. She herself took up her book and tried to read. Half an hour before this book had interested her, now she found it dry as sawdust; she could not follow the argument nor interest herself in the tale. She let it drop on her lap, and stared straight before her. How was she to do that which she said she would do? Her crutch was no longer available. The ghost who really supplied all her brilliant words and felicitous turns of speech and quaint ideas was not to be secured on any terms whatsoever. What could she do?

She felt restless and uncomfortable.

"I did wrong ever to consent to it, but now that I have begun I must go on taking in the golden sovereigns," she said to herself, and she took up the cheque for eighteen guineas, looked at it eagerly, and put it into her purse. Starvation was indeed now far removed. Florence could help her mother and support herself; but, nevertheless, although she was now well fed and well clothed and comfortably housed, she at that moment had the strongest regret of all her life for the old hungry days when she had been an honest, good girl, repentant of the folly of her youth, and able with a clear conscience to look all men in the face.

"But as I have begun I must go on," she said to herself. "To court discovery now would be madness. I cannot, I will not court it. Come what may, I must write that article. How am I to do it, and in twenty-four hours? Oh, if I could only telegraph to Bertha!"