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The Time of Roses, a fiction by L. T. Meade |
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Chapter 32. Trevor And Florence |
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_ CHAPTER XXXII. TREVOR AND FLORENCE It was Bertha's intention to go back to the railway station in the dogcart in order to secure the pheasants and fruit for the coming party; but just as she was preparing to jump on the cart Mrs. Aylmer herself appeared. "My dear Bertha," she said, "where are you going?" Bertha explained. "That is quite unnecessary. You can send Thomas. I want you to come for a drive with me. I wish to see Mrs. Paton of Paton Manor. I have not yet returned her call. There are also other calls which I want to make. The young people are away enjoying themselves, and our elderly friends have gone shooting. You must come with me, as I cannot possibly go alone." As Mrs. Aylmer spoke the jingle of bells was heard, and Bertha, raising her eyes, saw the pretty ponies which drew Mrs. Aylmer's own special little carriage trotting down the avenue. Bertha had always to drive Mrs. Aylmer in this little carriage, and, much as she as a rule enjoyed doing so, it was by no means her wish to do so now. She looked at Mrs. Aylmer. "The cook really does want the things from town." "That does not matter, my dear. Thomas is driving the dogcart and can call for the things. He had better go straight away at once." Mrs. Aylmer gave directions to the man, who whipped up the horse and disappeared down the avenue. Bertha felt a momentary sense of despair; then her quick wit came to the rescue. "I quite forgot to give Thomas a message," she said; "he must have it. Excuse me one minute, Mrs. Aylmer." Before Mrs. Aylmer could prevent her she was running after the dogcart as fast as she could go. She shouted to Thomas, who drew up. "Yes, miss," he said; "the mare is a bit fresh; what is it?" "You must take this parcel; there is a young lady waiting for it at the station: see that she gets it. Get one of the porters to put it into her hand. There is no message; just have the parcel delivered to her." "But what is the name of the young lady, miss?" Bertha had not thought of that. She looked back again at the house. Mrs. Aylmer was getting impatient, and was waving her hand to her to come back. "Her name is Miss Florence Aylmer; see that the parcel is put into her hands: there is no message." Thomas, not greatly caring whom the message was for, promised to see it safely delivered, and the mare, not brooking any further delay, raced down the avenue. "I do trust things will go right," thought Bertha to herself; "it is extremely dangerous. Florence certainly was mad when she came to this part of the country." There was no help for it, however. Bertha was learning once more that the way of the transgressors is hard. She had to stifle all her feelings of anxiety, help Mrs. Aylmer into her pretty pony carriage, and take the reins. Meanwhile Thomas and the spirited mare went as fast as possible to the railway station. The mare did not like the trains, which were coming and going at this moment in considerable numbers, Hamslade being a large junction. She did not like to stand still with so many huge and terrible monsters rushing by. Thomas did not dare to leave her, so he called to a porter who stood near. "I have come for some things from town; they must have arrived by the last train. Are there any packages for Mrs. Aylmer of Aylmer's Court?" "I'll go and see," said the man. He presently returned with the pheasants and fruit, which had arrived in due course. Thomas saw them deposited in the dogcart, and was just turning the mare's head towards home when he suddenly remembered the parcel. He drew up the animal again almost on its haunches. It reared in a state of fright. What was to be done? The porter had already disappeared into the station, and Thomas knew better than to return home without obeying Bertha's orders. Miss Keys was a power in the establishment. She could dismiss or she could engage just as she pleased. Thomas would not oppose her for worlds. He looked around him, and just at that moment saw Maurice Trevor crossing a field in a leisurely fashion. Maurice drew up when he saw Thomas. "Hallo," he said, "what are you doing here, Thomas?" "I came for some parcels from town, sir. I wonder, sir, if you would either hold the mare for a minute or do a commission for Miss Keys?" "I will do the commission; what is it?" "It is not much, sir; it is just to deliver this parcel to a young lady who is waiting for it at the station." "A young lady who is waiting for it at the station?" said Trevor. "Yes, sir: Miss Florence Aylmer. There is no answer, sir." Trevor received the little brown-paper parcel, very neatly made up and addressed to Miss Florence Aylmer, in unbounded astonishment. Thomas, relieved and feeling that his duty was well done, gave the mare her head and was soon out of sight. Trevor entered the station. He went to the ladies' waiting-room, and there saw Florence Aylmer. She came to the door the moment he appeared. "What are you doing here?" was his exclamation. "You may well wonder. But why are you here?" "I came to give you this." As she spoke he placed the little parcel in Florence's hand. "Thank you," she said. She had brought a small bag with her; she opened it and dropped the parcel into it. Her face looked worried; it had turned red when she saw Trevor: it was now very white. He stood leaning up against the door of the waiting-room and contemplated her in astonishment. "What have you been doing here all day?" he repeated. "That is my affair," she answered. "Forgive me; I do not want to be unduly curious, but surely when you were so near you might have come on to the Court. We should all have been glad to see you, and Mrs. Aylmer is your aunt." "You must please remember, Mr. Trevor," said Florence, speaking in as stately a tone as she could assume, "that Mrs. Aylmer does not act as my aunt--she does not wish to have anything to do with me." "But you have been here for hours in this dingy waiting-room." "No; I took a walk when I thought no one was looking." "That means you do not wish it to be known that you are here?" "I do not; and I earnestly beg of you not to mention it. Did Miss Keys really give you the parcel to bring to me?" "She really did nothing of the kind. She gave it to one of the grooms, who could not leave a spirited mare. He saw me and asked me to deliver it into your hands." "Thank you," said Florence. She stood silent for a moment; then she looked at the clock. "I must go," she said; "there is a train back to town immediately, and I want to cross to the other platform." "I will see you into the train if you will allow me." Florence could not refuse; but she heartily wished Trevor anywhere else in the world. "You will be sure not to mention that you saw me here," she said. "I may speak of it, I suppose, to Miss Keys?" "I wish you would not." "I won't promise, Miss Aylmer. I am very uncomfortable regarding the position you are in. It is hateful to me to feel that you should come here like a thief in the night, and stay for hours at the railway station. What mystery is there between you and Miss Keys?" Florence was silent. "You admit that there is a mystery?" "I admit that there is a secret between us, which I am not going to tell you." He reddened slightly; then he looked at her. She was holding her head well back; her figure was very upright; there was a proud indignation about her. His heart ached as he watched her. "I think of you often," he said; "your strange and inexplicable story is a great weight and trouble on my mind." "I wish you would not think of me: I wish you would forget me." Florence looked full at him; her angry dark eyes were full of misery. "Suppose that is impossible?" he said, dropping his voice, and there was something in his tone which made her heart give a sudden bound of absolute gladness. But what right had she to be glad? She hated herself for the sensation. Trevor came closer to her side. "I have very nearly made up my mind," he said; "when it is quite made up I shall come to see you in town. This is your train." He opened the door of a first-class carriage. "I am going third," said Florence. Without comment he walked down a few steps of the platform with her. An empty third-class carriage was found; she seated herself in it. "Good-bye," he said. He took off his hat and watched the train out of the station; then he returned slowly--very slowly--to Aylmer's Court. He could not quite account for his own sensations. He had meant to go to meet Kitty and her father, who were both going to walk back by the river, but he did not care to see either of them just now. He was puzzled and very angry with Bertha Keys, more than angry with Mrs. Aylmer, and he had a sore sense of unrest and misery with regard to Florence. "What can she want with Miss Keys? What can be the secret between them?" he said to himself over and over again. He was far from suspecting the truth. Bertha returned from her drive in apparently excellent spirits. She entered the hall, to find Trevor standing there alone. "Why are you back so early?" she said. He did not speak at all for a moment; then he came closer to her. Before he could utter a word she sprang to a centre table, and took up a copy of the Argonaut. "You are interested in Miss Aylmer. Have you read her story--the first story she has ever published?" she asked. "No," he replied; "is it there?" "It is. The reviews are praising it. She will do very well as a writer." Kitty Sharston and her father appeared at that moment. "Look, Miss Sharston," exclaimed Trevor; "you know Miss Aylmer. This is her story: have you read it?" "I have not," said Kitty; "how interesting! I did not know that the number of the Argonaut had come. Florence told me she was writing in it." She took up the number and turned the pages. "Oh!" she exclaimed once or twice. Trevor stood near. Bertha went and warmed herself by the fire. "Oh!" said Kitty, "this is good." Then she began to laugh. "Only I wish she were not quite so bitter," she exclaimed, a moment later. "It is wonderfully clever. Read it; do read it, Mr. Trevor." Trevor was all-impatient to do so. He took the magazine when Kitty handed it to him, and began to read rapidly. Soon he was absorbed in the tale. As he proceeded with it an angry flush deepened on his cheeks. "What is the matter?" said Bertha, who, for reasons of her own, was watching this little scene with interest. "I don't like the tone of this," he said. "Of course it is clever." "It is very clever; and what does the tone matter?" said Bertha. "You are one of those painfully priggish people, Mr. Trevor, who will never get on in the world. Have you not yet discovered that being extra good does not pay?" "I am not extra good; but being good pays in the long run," he answered. He darted an indignant glance at Bertha Keys and left the hall. Scarcely knowing why he did so, he strode into Mrs. Aylmer's boudoir. Bertha's desk, covered with papers, attracted his attention. There was a book lying near which she was reading. He picked it up, and was just turning away when a scrap of thin paper scribbled over in Bertha's well-known hand arrested his eye. Before he meant to do so he found that he had read a sentence on this paper. There was a sharpness and subtlety in the wording of the sentence which puzzled him for a moment, until he was suddenly startled by the resemblance to the style of the story in the Argonaut which he had just read. He scarcely connected the two yet, but his heart sank lower in his breast. He thought for a moment; then, opening his pocket-book, he placed the torn scrap of paper in it and went away to his room. It was nearly time to dress for dinner. Mrs. Aylmer always expected her adopted son to help her to receive her guests, but Trevor made no attempt to get into his evening suit. His valet knocked at the door, but he dismissed him. "I don't want your services to-night, Johnson," said the young man. Johnson withdrew. "It is all horrible," thought Trevor; "all this wealth and luxury for me and all the roughness for her, poor girl! But why should I think so much about her as I do? Why do I hate that story, clever as it is? The story is not like her. It hurts me to think that she could have written it. It is possible that I"--he started: his heart beat more quickly than was its wont--"is it possible," he repeated softly, under his breath, "that I am beginning to like her too much? Surely not too much! Suppose that is the way out of the difficulty?" He laughed aloud, and there was relief in the sound. _ |
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