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The Time of Roses, a fiction by L. T. Meade |
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Chapter 38. At The Reception |
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_ CHAPTER XXXVIII. AT THE RECEPTION The guests were all interesting, and the room sufficiently large not to be overcrowded. Franks seemed to watch Florence, guarding her against too much intrusion, but at the same time he himself kept her amused. He told her who the people were. As he did so, he watched her face. She still wore that becoming colour, and her eyes were still bright. She had lost that heavy apathetic air which had angered Franks more than once. He noticed, however, that she watched the door, and as fresh arrivals were announced her eyes brightened for an instant, and then grew perceptibly dull. He knew she was watching for Trevor, and he cursed Trevor in his heart. "She is in love with him. What fools women are!" muttered Franks to himself. "If she married a man like that--a rich man with all that money could give--her literary career would be ended. I have had the pleasure of introducing her to the public; she is my treasure-trove, my one bright particular star. She shall not shine for anyone else. That great gift of hers shall be improved, shall be strengthened, shall be multiplied ten-thousandfold. I will not give her up. I love her just because she is clever: because she is a genius. If she had not that divine fire, she would be as nothing and worse than nothing to me. As it is, the world shall talk of her yet." Presently Trevor and his mother arrived, and it seemed to Florence that some kind of wave of sympathy immediately caused his eyes to light upon her in her distant corner. He said a few words to his hostess, watched his mother as she greeted a chance acquaintance, and elbowed his way to her side. "This is good luck," he said; "I did not expect to see you here to-night." He sat down by her, and Franks was forced to seek entertainment elsewhere. Florence expected that after the way she had treated Trevor early that day he would be cold and distant; but this was not the case. He seemed to have read her agitation for what it was worth. Something in her eyes must have given him a hint of the truth. He certainly was not angry now. He was sympathetic, and the girl thought, with a great wave of comfort: "He does not like me because I am supposed to be clever. He likes me for quite another reason: just for myself. But why did not he tell me so before--before I fell a second time? It is all hopeless now, of course; and yet is it hopeless? Perhaps Maurice Trevor is the kind of man who would forgive. I wonder!" She looked up at him as the thought came to her, and his eyes met hers. "What are you thinking about?" he said. They had been talking a lot of commonplaces; now his voice dropped; if he could, he would have taken her hand. They were as much alone in that crowd as though they had been the only people in the room. "What are you thinking of?" he repeated. "Of you," said Florence. "Perhaps you are sorry for some of the things you said this morning?" "I am sorry," she answered gravely, "that I was obliged to say them." "But why were you obliged?" "I have a secret; it was because of that secret I was obliged." "You will tell it to me, won't you?" "I cannot." Trevor turned aside. He did not speak at all for a moment. "I must understand you somehow," he said then; "you are surrounded by mystery, you puzzle me, you pique my curiosity. I am not curious about small things as a rule, but this is not a small thing, and I have a great curiosity as to the state of your heart, as to the state of your--" "My morals," said Florence slowly; "of my moral nature--you are not sure of me, are you?" "I am sure that, bad or good--and I know you are not bad--you are the only woman that I care for. May I come and see you to-morrow?" "Don't talk any more now; you upset me," said Florence. "May I come and see you to-morrow?" "Yes." "Remember, if I come, I shall expect you to tell me everything?" "Yes." "You will?" "I am not certain; I can let you know when you do come." "Thank you; you have lifted a great weight from my heart." A moment later Franks appeared with a very learned lady, a Miss Melchister, who asked to be introduced to Florence. "I have a crow to pluck with you, Miss Aylmer," she said. "What is that?" asked Florence. "How dare you give yourself and your sisters away? Do you know that you were very cruel when you wrote that extremely clever paper in the General Review?" "I don't see it," replied Florence. Her answers were lame. Miss Melchister prepared herself for the fray. "We will discuss the point," she said. "Now, why did you say--" Trevor lingered near for a minute. He observed that Florence's cheeks had turned pale, and he thought that for such a clever girl she spoke in a rather ignorant way. "How queer she is!" he said to himself; "but never mind, she will tell me all to-morrow. I shall win her; it will be my delight to guard her, to help her, and if necessary to save her. She is under someone's thumb; but I will find out whose." His thoughts travelled to Bertha Keys. He remembered that strange time when he met Florence at the railway station at Hamslade. Why had she spent the day there? Why had Bertha sent her a parcel? He felt disturbed, and he wandered into another room. This was the library of the house. Some papers were lying about. Amongst others was the first number of the General Review. With a start Trevor took it up. He would look through Florence's article. That clever paper had been largely criticised already; but, strange to say, he had not read it. He sank into a chair and read it slowly over. As he did so, his heart beat at first loud, then with heavy throbs. A look of pain, perplexity, and weariness came into his eyes. One sentence in particular he read not only once, but twice, three times. It was a strange sentence; it contained in it the germ of a very poisonous thought. In these few words was the possibility of a faith being undermined, and a hope being destroyed. It puzzled him. He had the queer feeling that he had read it before. He repeated it to himself until he knew it by heart. Then he put the paper down, and soon afterwards he went to his mother, and told her he was going home. "I will send a brougham for you; I am not very well," he said. She looked into his face, and was distressed at the expression she saw in his eyes. "All right, Maurice dear; I shall be ready in an hour. I just want to meet a certain old friend, and to talk to that pretty girl Miss Aylmer. I will find out why she does not come to see us." "Don't worry her. I would rather you didn't," said Trevor. His mother looked at him again, and her heart sank. "Is it possible he has proposed for her, and she will not accept him?" thought the mother; and then she drew her proud little head up, and a feeling of indignation filled her heart. If Florence was going to treat her boy, the very light of her eyes, cruelly, she certainly need expect no mercy from his mother. _ |
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