It was by no means the first time
that Bertha Keys had found herself in a quandary.
She was very clever at getting out of these tight corners:
of extricating herself from these, to all appearances,
impossible situations; but never had she been more
absolutely nonplussed than at the present moment.
When she and Florence had both left
Cherry Court School her prospects had been dark.
She had been dismissed without any hope of a character,
and had, as it were, to begin the world over again.
Then chance put Mrs. Aylmer the great in her way.
Mrs. Aylmer wanted a companion, a clever companion,
and Bertha was just the girl for the purpose.
She obtained the situation, managing to get references
through a friend, taking care to avoid the subject
of Cherry Court School, and never alluding to Florence
Aylmer.
Mrs. Aylmer was very sore and angry
just then. She disliked Florence immensely for
having disgraced her; she did not wish the name of
Florence Aylmer to be breathed in her presence; she
was looking around anxiously for an heir. With
Bertha Keys she felt soothed, sympathised with, restored
to a good deal of her former calm. By slow degrees
she told Bertha almost all of her history; in particular
she consulted with Bertha on the subject of an heir.
“I must leave my money to someone,”
she said; “I hate the idea of giving it to charities.
Charity, in my opinion, begins at home.”
“That is does, truly,”
answered Bertha, her queer green-grey eyes fixed on
her employer’s face.
“And Florence Aylmer being completely
out of the question,” continued Mrs. Aylmer,
“and Florence’s mother being about the
biggest fool that ever breathed, I must look in another
direction for my heir.”
“Why not adopt a boy?”
said Bertha, on one of these occasions.
“Adopt a boy? a boy?”
“Well, a young man,” said Bertha, colouring.
“What a very extraordinary idea!”
was Mrs. Aylmer’s response. She looked
withering things at Bertha, and this young lady found
herself more or less in disgrace for the next few
days. Nevertheless, the idea took root.
Mrs. Aylmer, having found girls failures, began to
think that all that was desirable might be encompassed
in the person of a boy.
“It would be nice to have a
boy about the house. They were cheerful creatures.
As they grew to be men, they were more or less a protection.
Boys, of course, had none of the small ways of girls.
A deceitful boy was a creature almost unknown.”
So Mrs. Aylmer thought, and she began
to look around for a suitable boy to adopt and leave
her money to. No sooner did she seriously contemplate
this idea than the opportunity to adopt a very special
boy occurred to her. She had an old friend, a
great friend, a woman whom as a girl she had really
loved. This woman was now a widow: she was
a certain Mrs. Trevor. She had married an army
man, who had died gloriously in battle. He had
won his V. C. before he departed to a better world.
His widow had a small pension, and one son. Mrs.
Trevor happened just about this very time to write
to Mrs. Aylmer. She told her of her great and
abiding sorrow, and spoke with the deepest delight
and admiration of her boy.
“Send Maurice to spend a week
with me,” was Mrs. Aylmer’s telegraphic
reply to this epistle.
In some astonishment, Mrs. Trevor
packed up her boy’s things he was
a lad of eighteen at this time and sent
him off to visit Mrs. Aylmer in her beautiful country
place.
Maurice Trevor was frank, innocent,
open as the day. He pleased the widow because
he did not try to please her in the least. He
liked Bertha Keys because all apparently amiable people
suited him, and Bertha certainly did look distinctly
amiable. Soon she got into his confidence, and
he talked of his future. He wanted to go into
the army, as his father had done before him.
Bertha suggested that he should tell his desire to
Mrs. Aylmer. This Maurice Trevor would not think
of doing. He spent a week, a fortnight, a month
with the widow, and went back to his mother, having
secured a great deal more than he bargained for in
the course of his visit.
Mrs. Aylmer now wrote to Mrs. Trevor,
said that she liked Maurice very much, that she had
no heir to leave her money to, and that if Maurice
really turned out quite to her satisfaction she would
make him her future heir. He must live with her
during the holidays; he must give up his mother’s
society, except for a very short time in the year;
he must be thoroughly well educated; must, on no account,
enter the army; and must have a University education.
These terms, generous in themselves,
were eagerly accepted by the all but penniless widow.
She had some difficulty, however, in persuading young
Trevor to, as he expressed it, sell his independence.
In the end her wishes prevailed. He went to Trinity
College, Cambridge, took honours there, and now at
four-and-twenty years of age was to a certain extent
his own master, and yet was more tied and fettered
than almost any other young man he knew. To tell
the truth, he hated his own position. Mrs. Aylmer
was capricious; she considered that he owed her undying
gratitude: that he should only do what she wished.
He had little or no control of her affairs, Bertha
Keys being the true mistress.
At the time when this story opens
he felt that he could scarcely stand his silken fetters
any longer.
Bertha, as she stood now in the moonlit
window of her little room at the “Crown and
Garter,” thought over Maurice Trevor, his future
prospects, and his past life. She also thought
about Florence.
“From the way he spoke to-night,”
thought this astute young woman, “very, very
little would make him fall in love with Florence.
Now, that is quite the very last thing to be desired.
It would be a sort of revenge on Mrs. Aylmer, but
it cannot be permitted for a single moment. They
must not meet again. There are several reasons
against that. In the first place, it would not
suit my convenience. I mean to inherit Mrs. Aylmer’s
property, either as the heiress in my own person or
as the wife of Maurice Trevor. It is true that
I am older than he, but I have three times his sense:
I can manage him if another girl does not interfere.
He must leave here immediately. I must make some
excuse. His mother is not quite so quixotic as
he is; I must manage things through her. One thing,
at least, I am resolved on: he must not hear the
story of Florence at least, not through
Florence herself: he must not meet her again,
and Mrs. Aylmer must not tell him the story of what
occurred at Cherry Court School.”
Bertha thought a very long time.
“If he really falls in love
with Florence, then he must no longer be Mrs. Aylmer’s
heir,” she said to herself; “but he shall
not meet her. I like him: I want him for
myself; when the time comes, I will marry him.
He shall not marry another woman and inherit all Mrs.
Aylmer’s property.”
Bertha stayed up for some time.
It was between two and three in the morning when at
last she laid her head on her pillow. She had
gone through an exciting and even a dangerous day,
but that did not prevent her sleeping soundly.
Early in the morning, however, she rose. She was
dressed before seven o’clock, and waited anxiously
for eight o’clock, the time when she might send
off a telegram. She procured a telegraph form
and carefully filled it in. These were the words
she wrote:
“Make some excuse
to summon Maurice to London at once. Must go.
Will explain to you
when writing. Do not let Maurice know that
I have telegraphed. Bertha
Keys.”
This telegram was addressed to Mrs.
Trevor, Rose View, 10 St. Martin’s Terrace,
Hampstead. Punctually as the clock struck eight,
Bertha was standing at the telegraph-office; it was
so early that she knew the line would be more or less
clear. She sent off her telegram and returned
with a good appetite to breakfast.
At about ten o’clock a telegram
arrived for Trevor. He was eating his breakfast
in his usual lazy fashion, and was inwardly wondering
if he could see Florence again: if he could lead
up to the subject of the school where she had suffered
disgrace: and if she herself would explain to
him that which was making him far more uncomfortable
than the occasion warranted.
“A telegram for you,”
said Bertha, handing him the little yellow envelope.
He opened it, and his face turned pale.
“How queer!” he said;
“this is from mother; she wants me to come up
to-day: says it is urgent. What shall I do,
Miss Keys?”
“Why, go, of course,”
said Bertha; “here is Mrs. Aylmer. Mrs.
Aylmer, Mr. Trevor has had an urgent telegram from
his mother. She wants to see him.”
Mrs. Aylmer looked annoyed.
“I wanted you to come with me
this morning, Maurice,” she said, “on an
expedition to Warren’s Cove. I thought you
might drive me in a pony carriage.”
“I can do that,” said Bertha, in her brisk
way.
“Of course you can, my dear,
if Maurice feels that he really must go. When
can you be back again?”
“I will try and return to-morrow,”
said Trevor; “but, of course, it depends on
what really ails mother. From the tone of her
telegram I should say she was ill.”
“And I should say nothing of
the kind,” answered Mrs. Aylmer shortly; “she
is one of those faddists who are always imagining that
they require ”
“Hush!” said Trevor, in a stern voice.
“What do you mean by ‘hush?’”
“I would rather you did not say anything against
my mother, please.”
He spoke with such harshness and such
determination that Bertha trembled in her shoes, but
Mrs. Aylmer gave him a glance of admiration.
“You are a good boy to stand
up for her,” she said; “yes, go, by all
means: only return to me, your second mother,
as soon as you can.”
“Thanks,” he answered,
softening a little; but the gloomy look did not leave
his face.
“I will walk with you to the
station, Mr. Trevor,” said Bertha, who thought
that he required soothing, and felt that she was quite
capable of administering consolation.
“Thanks,” he replied;
“I shall ask the station porter to call for my
portmanteau.”