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The Time of Roses, a fiction by L. T. Meade |
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Chapter 37. Trevor Proposes To Florence |
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_ CHAPTER XXXVII. TREVOR PROPOSES TO FLORENCE Trevor's vigorous knock came upon Florence's door. She did not know why her heart leapt, nor why the colour came into her cheeks. She had been feeling indifferent to all the world a moment before. Now she was suddenly eager and full of interest. She crossed the room and opened the door wide. When she saw Trevor she uttered an exclamation and her eyes shone. "Is it possible that you have come?" she said. "How are you? Won't you come in?" He took her hand. "Yes, I have come," he answered. "Can you give me a little time, or are you too busy?" "I am never busy," said Florence. He looked at her in some surprise when she said that, but resolved to take no notice. He had quick eyes and a keen intuition, and he saw at a glance that Florence was uneasy and suffering, also that she was more or less indifferent to the life on which she had entered, which ought to have been so full of the keenest interest. She asked him to seat himself and took a chair near. "How are they all at Aylmer's Court?" she asked. "When I left yesterday morning they were well," he replied. "Did you know that your friend Miss Sharston was on a visit there?" "Yes, I heard of it; Kitty wrote to me. Do you like Kitty, Mr. Trevor?" "Of course I like her," he replied, and, remembering what was expected of him by Mrs. Aylmer with regard to Kitty, the bronze on his cheeks deepened. Florence noticed the increase of colour, and her heart beat. "I wonder if he does like her and if she likes him. I should not be surprised; I ought to be glad," she thought. But she knew very well that she was not glad, and she vaguely wondered why. "I have come with a message from my mother," said Trevor, who was watching her while her eyes were travelling towards the fire. He was thinking how ill and worn she looked, and his heart was full of pity as well as love, but he would not speak yet. He must wait; he must be sure of her feelings before he committed himself. "I have come with a message from my mother," he repeated. "I want you to come back with me now. You enjoyed your last day at the cottage: it was summer then. It is early winter now, but the heath is still beautiful. Shall we go together, and after lunch have a walk on the heath?" "I am very sorry, but I cannot go," replied Florence. She looked longingly out of the window as she spoke. "No," she repeated; "I cannot." "But why not? You say you are not busy." "In one sense I am not busy; but I have some work to do." "Some of your literary work?" Florence nodded, but did not speak. "I have to copy something," she said, after a pause; "I have to send it to the editor of the Argonaut; he is waiting." "Do you know, I have only read one of your stories, the first which appeared in the Argonaut? It was clever." "I wish it had been idiotic," replied Florence. "Everyone says to me: 'Your story is clever.' I hate that story." "I am delighted to hear you say so. I did not admire it myself. Of course I saw that it was--" "Don't say again that it was clever. I don't wish to hear anything about it. I cannot come with you to-day. I have to do some copying." "Why do you say copying?" "Because I always copy the manuscripts faithfully before Mr. Franks has them for the Argonaut. He is waiting, and I am a slow writer." "Shall I copy the story for you?" "Not for all the world," replied Florence, startled at her own vehemence. Trevor rose, a look of annoyance on his face. "I am sorry you should think of my offer of help in that spirit," he said; "you don't quite understand: perhaps some day I may be able to make things plain to you. I take a great, a very great interest in you. You have brought--" "What?" said Florence. "You have brought a great anxiety and trouble into my life, as well as a very great absorbing interest; but I can say no more now." "If you will go away," said Florence, "I will begin to work. I have a headache, and am confused. Go away and come again, if you like. I shall be better the next time you come." "Why won't you tell me what is troubling you?" "How do you know anything troubles me?" "How do I know?" said Trevor. "I have eyes--that is all: eyes and a certain amount of intuition," he added. "I cannot go to-day," said Florence, who took no notice of his words, "but perhaps on Sunday I may go to see your mother. Will you be there then?" "Yes: did you not hear? I have broken with Mrs. Aylmer." "What?" said Florence. She forgot herself in her excitement. She came two or three steps forward; her hands were clasped tightly together. "Yes; I cannot stand the life. Mrs. Aylmer is very kind to me, and means well; but so long as she is so cruel to you I cannot endure it. I have told her so, and I am going to earn my own living in the future. I am no longer a rich man--indeed, I am a very poor one; but I have brains and I think I have pluck, and some day I am certain I shall succeed." Trevor held himself erect, and his eyes, full of suppressed fire, were fixed on Florence's face. He wanted her to say she was glad; he wanted to get a word of sympathy from her. On the contrary, she turned very white, and said, in a low, almost broken voice: "Oh, I am terribly sorry! Why have you done this?" "You are sorry?" "Yes, I am." "I have done it for you. I cannot stand injustice." "I could never under any circumstances accept Mrs. Aylmer's money," said Florence. "You do me no good, and yourself harm; and then your mother: she was so happy about you. Oh, do go back to Mrs. Aylmer; do tell her you didn't mean it. I know she must be very fond of you. It makes me so wretched, so overpoweringly wretched, to think you should have done this for me. Oh, do go back! She will be so glad to receive you. I know a little about her: I know she will receive you with rejoicing." "Do you know what she wants me to do?" he said. He was very white now. He had thrown prudence to the winds. "What?" "You will not like it when I tell you; but you must at least exonerate me: I am obliged to be frank." "Say what you please; I am willing to listen." Trevor dropped once more into a chair. "When I last saw her she made a proposal to me. It was not the first time; it was the second. She wanted me to marry--" "I know," said Florence; "she wants you to marry Kitty. But why not? She is so sweet; she is the dearest girl in all the world." "Hush!" said Trevor. "I do not love her, nor does she love me. I can scarcely bear to tell you all this. It is sacrilegious to think of marriage under such circumstances, and above all things to mention it in connection with a girl like Miss Sharston." Florence found tears springing to her eyes. "You are very good," she said, "too good, to sit here and talk to me. Of course, if you don't love Kitty, there is an end of it. Are you quite sure?" "Positive. I know my own heart too well. I love another." "Another?" Florence had a wild fear for a moment that he was alluding to Bertha Keys. A desperate thought came into her brain. "At any cost, I will open his eyes: I will tell him the truth," she thought. Trevor had come nearer, and was bending forward and trying to take her hand. "You are the one I love," he said. "How can I, who love you with all my heart and soul and strength, who would give my life for you, how can I think of anyone else? It does not matter whether you are the most amiable or the most unamiable woman in the world, Florence: you are the one woman on God's earth for me. Do you hear me, Florence; do you hear me? I love you; I have come to-day to tell you that I give my life to you. I put it into your hands. I didn't mean to speak, but the truth has been wrung from me. Do you hear me, Florence?" Florence certainly did hear, but she did not speak. Trevor had taken her hand, and she did not withdraw it. She was stunned for a moment. The next instant there came over her, sweeping round her, entering her heart, filling her whole being, a delicious and marvellous ecstasy. The pain and the trouble vanished. The treachery, the deceit, and the fall she had undergone were forgotten. She only knew that, if Trevor loved her, she loved him. She was about to speak when her eyes fell for a moment on a page of the manuscript she had just written. Like a flash, memory came back. It stung her cruelly as a serpent might sting. She sprang to her feet; she flung down his hand. "You don't know whom you are talking to. If you knew me just as I am, you would unsay all those words; and, Mr. Trevor, you can never know me as I am, never, and I can never marry you." "But do you love me? That is the point," said Trevor. "I--do not ask me. No--if you must know. How can I love anybody? I am incapable of love. Oh, go, go! do go! I don't love you: of course I don't. Don't think of me again. I am not for you. Try and love Kitty, and make Mrs. Aylmer happy. Go; do leave me! I am unworthy of you, absolutely, utterly." "But if I think differently?" said Trevor. He was very much troubled by her words; she spoke with such vehemence, and alluded to such extraordinary and to him impossible things, that he failed to understand her; then he said slowly: "You are stunned and surprised, but, darling, I am willing to wait, and my heart is yours. A man cannot take back his heart after he has given it, even though a woman does scorn it. But you won't be cruel to me; I cannot believe it, Florence. I will come again to-morrow and see you." He turned without speaking to her again and left the room. Florence never knew how she spent the rest of that day; but she had a dim memory afterwards that she worked harder during the succeeding hours than she had ever worked in her life before. Her brain was absolutely stimulated by what she had gone through, and she felt almost inclined to venture to write that Sunday-school paper which Tom Franks had so much desired. She was to go out that evening with the Franks. She was now, although the London season had by no means begun, a little bit in request in certain literary circles; and Tom Franks, who had taken her in tow, was anxious to bring her as much forward as possible. Edith and Tom were going to drive to a certain house in the suburbs where a literary lady, a Mrs. Simpson, a very fashionable woman, lived. Florence was to be the lioness of the evening, and Edith came in early from her medical work to apprise her of the fact. "You had better wear that pretty black lace dress, and here are some crimson roses for you," she said. "I bought them at the florist's round the corner; they will suit you very well. But I wish you would not lose all your colour. You certainly look quite fagged out." "On the contrary, I am not the least bit tired," said Florence. "I am glad I am going. I have finished the story for your brother and can post it first. I have had a hard day's work, Edith, and deserve a little bit of fun to-night." "Now that I look at you, you don't seem as tired as usual," said Edith; "that is right. Tom was vexed last night. He says you work so hard that you are quite stupid in society. Try and allow people to draw you out. If you make even one or two of those pretty little epigrammatic speeches with which your writing is full, you will get yourself talked of more than ever. I presume, writing the sort of things you do, that you are going in for fame, and fame alone. Well, my dear, at least so live that you may obtain that for which you are selling yourself." "I am not selling myself. How dare you?" said Florence. Her whole manner was new; she had ceased to depreciate herself. Edith left her, and Florence went into her bed-room and carefully made her toilet. Her eyes were soft as well as bright. The dress she wore suited her well; there was a flush of becoming colour in her cheeks. She joined Edith just as Franks drove up in his brougham. He ran upstairs, and was pleased to see that the two girls were ready. "Come, that is nice," he said, gazing at Florence with an increased beating of his heart. He said to himself: "She is absolutely handsome. She would suit me admirably as a wife. I may propose to her to-night if I have the chance." He gave his arm to Florence with a certain chivalry which was by no means habitual to him, and the two girls and Franks went downstairs. "There is to be a bit of a crush," he said, looking at Florence; "and, by the way, did I tell you who was to be present? You saw him to-day: Maurice Trevor. He is a great friend of Mrs. Simpson's, and he and his mother have been invited." Florence's hand was still on Franks's arm when he spoke, and as he uttered the words "Maurice Trevor" she gave that arm an involuntary grip. He felt the grip, and a queer sensation went through him. He could not look into her face, but his suspicions were aroused. Why had she been so startled when Trevor's name was mentioned? He would watch the pair to-night. Trevor was not going to take Florence from him if he, Franks, wished for her: of that he was resolved. _ |
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