The Sharstons and Sir John Wallis
were enjoying themselves very much at Aylmer’s
Court. Mrs. Aylmer exerted herself to be specially
agreeable. She could, when she liked, put aside
her affected manner: she could open out funds
of unexpected knowledge: she at least knew her
own country well: she took her guests to all
sorts of places of local interest: she had the
best of the neighbours to dine in the evenings:
she had good music and pleasant recitations and round
games for the young folks, and dancing on more than
one occasion in the great hall. The time passed
on wings, and the three guests thoroughly enjoyed
themselves.
Both Trevor and Bertha were greatly
responsible for this happy state of things. Bertha,
having quickly discovered that Kitty would not betray
her secret, resumed that manner which had always made
her popular. Bertha, in reality one of the most
selfish women who ever lived who had wrecked
more lives than one in the course of her unscrupulous
career could be to all appearance the most
absolutely unselfish. In great things she was
selfish to the point of cruelty; in little things
she completely forgot herself. So day after day,
by tact, by apparent kindness, by much cleverness,
she led the conversation into the brightest channels.
She suggested, without seeming to suggest, this and
that way of passing the time. She was always ready
to play anybody’s accompaniment or any amount
of dance music: to lead the games: to promote
the sports. Kitty could not help owning that she
was charming. Now and then, it is true, she sighed
to herself and wished that she could forget that dark
spot in Bertha’s past.
Sir John Wallis looked often at the
strange girl with a feeling of surprise struggling
with a new-born respect. After all, was he to
bring up this girl’s past to her? She had
conquered, no doubt. She had turned over a new
leaf. Of course, he and Kitty and his old friend,
Colonel Sharston, would never breathe a word to injure
her. And Bertha, who was quick to read approval
in the eyes of those she wished to please, felt her
heart grow light within her, and thought little of
danger.
Trevor, too, was more or less off
his guard. He knew what Mrs. Aylmer expected
of him, but he resolved to shut away the knowledge.
He liked Kitty most heartily for herself. She
was a charming companion: she was one of the
most amiable and one of the sweetest girls he had ever
met; but the sore feeling in his heart of hearts with
regard to Florence never deserted him, and it was
her image which rose before his eyes when he looked
at Kitty, and it was about Florence he liked best to
speak. Kitty added to all her other charms by
being delighted to talk on this congenial theme.
She and Trevor often went away for long walks together,
and during those walks they talked of Florence, and
Trevor gradually but surely began to give some of
his confidences to his young companion and to tell
her how bitterly he felt the position in which Mrs.
Aylmer had placed her own niece.
“I cannot take her place,”
he said; “you would not if you were placed in
the same position?”
“If I were you I would not,”
said Kitty, in her gentle voice; but then she added,
with a sigh: “I do not think even you know
Mrs. Aylmer. Florence used to tell me all about
her long ago. She is a very strange woman.
Although she is so kind to us, I am afraid she is terribly
unforgiving; I do not think she will ever forgive poor
Flo.”
Trevor was silent for a moment, then
he said slowly: “This mystery of the past,
am I never to know about it?”
Kitty looked at him, and her gentle
grey eyes flashed. “You are never to know
about it from me,” she said.
He bowed, and immediately turned the conversation.
A fortnight had nearly gone by, and
the guests now felt themselves thoroughly at home
at Aylmer’s Court, when late one afternoon the
telegraph-boy was seen coming down the avenue.
He met Trevor and asked him immediately if Miss Keys
were at home. Trevor replied that he did not
know where Miss Keys was. It turned out that she
had been away for several hours. Trevor consented
to take charge of the telegram. As no answer
was possible, the boy departed on his way.
Bertha had gone to see an old lady
for Mrs. Aylmer, and did not come home until it was
time to dress for dinner. It was quite late, for
they dined at a fashionable hour. The telegram
was lying on the hall table. She saw that it
was addressed to herself, started, for she did not
often receive telegrams, and tore it open. Its
contents certainly were the reverse of reassuring.
If Florence appeared on the scene now, what incalculable
mischief she might effect! How could she, Bertha,
stop the headstrong girl? She glanced at the
clock and stamped her foot with impatience. The
little telegraph-office in the nearest village had
been closed for the last hour and a half. It
would be impossible, except by going by train to the
nearest town, to send off a telegram that night.
Bertha went up to her room, feeling
intensely uncomfortable. In spite of all her
efforts, she could scarcely maintain conversation during
the evening which followed.
In the course of that evening Trevor
asked her if she had received her telegram.
“It came two or three hours
ago,” he said; “the messenger wanted to
wait for an answer, but I knew there was no use in
that, as you would not be home until late. I
hope you have had no bad news.”
“Irritating news,” she
replied, in a whisper; “pray don’t speak
of it to the others. I don’t want it mentioned
that I have had a telegram.”
He glanced at her, and slightly raised
his brows. She saw that he was disturbed, and
that a sort of suspicion was stealing over him.
She came nearer, and by way of looking over the illustrated
paper which he was glancing through, said, in a very
low voice: “It was from Florence Aylmer.
She has got herself into a fresh scrape, I am afraid.”
He threw back his head with an impatient movement.
“What do you mean?”
“Nothing, but if you wish to
do her a good turn you will not mention the fact that
I have received this telegram.”
There was nothing more to be said,
and Trevor walked across the room to the piano.
He and Kitty both had good voices, and they sang some
duets together.
During the night which followed Bertha
slept but little. Again and again she took up
Florence’s telegram and looked at it. She
would be at Hamslade, the nearest station to Aylmer’s
Court, between nine and ten o’clock. Bertha
resolved, come what would, to meet her at the station.
“Whatever happens, she must
not come here,” thought Bertha; “but how
am I to get to the station, so early too, just when
Mrs. Aylmer wants me for a hundred things? Stay,
though: I have an idea.”