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The Time of Roses, a fiction by L. T. Meade |
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Chapter 17. Nearer And Nearer |
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_ 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-- 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!" _ |
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