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."
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?"
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."
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."
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.