Kitty Sharston, in the softest of
white dresses, was playing Trevor’s accompaniments
at the grand piano. He had a beautiful voice a
very rich tenor. Kitty herself had a sweet and
high soprano. The two now sang together.
The music proceeded, broken now and then by snatches
of conversation. No one was specially listening
to the young pair, although some eyes were watching
them.
In a distant part of the room Sir
John Wallis and Mrs. Aylmer were having a tete-a-tete.
“I like him,” said Sir
John. “You are lucky in having secured so
worthy an heir for your property.”
“You don’t like him better
than I like your adopted child, Miss Sharston,”
was Mrs. Aylmer’s low answer.
“Ay, she is a sweet girl no
one like her in the world,” said Sir John.
“I almost grudge her to her father, much as I
love him. We were comrades on the battle-field,
you know. Perhaps he has told you that story.”
“I have heard it, but not from
him,” said Mrs. Aylmer, with a smile. “Your
friendship for each other is quite of the David and
Jonathan order. And so, my good friend” she
laid her white hand for an instant on Sir John’s
arm “you are going to leave your property
to your favourite Kitty?”
Sir John frowned; then he said shortly:
“I see no reason for denying the fact.
Kitty Sharston, when it pleases God to remove me, will
inherit my wealth.”
“She is a sweet, very sweet
girl,” replied Mrs. Aylmer. She glanced
down the room; there was significance in her eyes.
Sir John followed her look. Kitty
and Trevor had now stopped all music. Trevor
was talking in a low tone to the girl; Kitty’s
head was slightly bent and she was pulling a white
chrysanthemum to pieces.
“I wonder what he is saying
to her?” thought Mrs. Aylmer. Then all of
a sudden she made up her mind. “I should
like it,” she said aloud; “I should like
it much.”
Sir John started, and a slight accession
of colour came into his ruddy cheeks.
“What do you mean?” he said.
“Have you never thought of it?
It is right for the young to marry. This would
be a match after my own heart. Would it please
you?”
“It would, if it were God’s
will,” said Sir John emphatically. He looked
again at the pair by the piano, and then across the
long room to Colonel Sharston. Colonel Sharston
was absorbed in a game of chess with Bertha Keys.
He was noticing nothing but the intricacies of the
game.
“All the same,” added
Sir John, “her father and I are in no hurry to
see Kitty settled in life. She is most precious
to us both; we should scarcely know ourselves without
her.”
“Oh, come now, I call that selfish,”
said Mrs. Aylmer; “a pretty girl must find her
true mate, and there is nothing so happy as happy married
life.”
“Granted, granted,” said Sir John.
“You and I, Sir John, are not
so young as we used to be. It would be nice for
us to see those we love united: to feel that whatever
storms life may bring they will bear them together.
But say nothing to Colonel Sharston on the subject
yet. I am glad to feel that when my son,
as I always called Maurice, proposes for your daughter,
as you doubtless think Kitty, there will be no objection
on your part.”
“None whatever, except that
I shall be sorry to lose her. I have a great
admiration for Trevor; he is a man quite after my own
heart.”
Soon afterwards Sir John Wallis moved away.
Mrs. Aylmer, having sown the seed
she desired to sow, was satisfied. From time
to time the old man watched the pretty, bright-eyed
girl. During the rest of the evening Trevor scarcely
left her side; they had much to talk over, much in
common. Mrs. Aylmer was in the highest spirits.
“This is exactly what I want,”
she said to herself; “but I can see, for some
extraordinary reason, that notwithstanding his attentions,
Maurice has not fallen in love with that remarkably
sweet girl. Whom has he given his heart to?
If I thought for a single moment that Bertha was playing
that game, I should dismiss her with a month’s
salary. But no: she would not dare.
She is a clever woman and invaluable to me, and there
is no saying what clever women will not think of; but
I do not believe even Bertha would go as far as that,
and I warned her too. For some reason Maurice
is not often with Bertha just now. Yes, I must
bring things to an issue. The Sharstons and Sir
John leave on Monday. Maurice must make up his
mind to propose to Miss Sharston almost immediately
afterwards. He can follow them to Southsea, where
they have taken a house for the winter.”
Mrs. Aylmer was quite cheerful as she thought over
this.
“We will have a grand wedding
in the spring,” she said to herself, “and
Kitty shall come and live with me. I need not
keep Bertha Keys when Kitty is always in the house.
Kitty would suit me much better. I seldom saw
a girl I liked more thoroughly.”
Meanwhile Kitty Sharston and her companion,
little guessing the thoughts which were passing through
the minds of their elders, were busily talking over
the one subject which now occupied all Trevor’s
thoughts. Like bees round a flower, these thoughts
drew nearer and nearer every moment to the subject
of Florence Aylmer. Whenever Trevor was silent
or distrait Kitty would speak of Florence, and his
attention was instantly arrested. He began to
talk in cheerful and animated tones. Incidents
of Florence’s life at school always made him
laugh. He was glad to hear of her small triumphs,
which Kitty related to him with much naïveté.
This evening, after a longer pause
than usual, during which Kitty tore her chrysanthemum
to pieces, and Mrs. Aylmer was quite certain that
Maurice was saying something very tender and suitable,
Trevor broke the silence by saying abruptly:
“You have doubtless all sorts of prizes and
competitions in your school life. Was Miss Aylmer
ever remarkable for the excellence of her essays and
themes?”
“Ever remarkable for the excellence
of her essays or themes?” said Kitty.
Before she could reply, Bertha, whose
game was over, and who had just given an emphatic
checkmate to her enemy, strolled across the room.
She stood near the piano and could overhear the two;
Kitty’s eyes met hers, and Kitty’s cheeks
turned pale.
“I don’t think she was
specially remarkable for the excellence of her writing,”
said Kitty then, in a low voice.
“You surprise me. Such
talent as she now possesses must have been more or
less inherent in her even as a child.”
“It does not always follow,”
said Bertha, suddenly joining in the conversation.
“I presume you are both talking of your favourite
heroine, Florence Aylmer. But you remember an
occasion, however, Miss Sharston, when Florence Aylmer
did receive much applause for a carefully-worded
essay.”
“I do,” said Kitty; “how
dare you speak of it?” She rose to her feet in
ungovernable excitement, her eyes blazed, her cheeks
were full of colour.
Another instant and she might have
blurted out all the truth, and ruined Bertha for ever,
had not that young lady laid her hand on her arm.
“Hush!” she whispered;
“be careful what you say. Remember you injure
her. Mr. Trevor, I think I see Mrs. Aylmer beckoning
to you.”
Mrs. Aylmer was doing nothing of the
kind; but Trevor was obliged to go to her. Kitty
soon subsided on her seat.
“Why did you say that?” she said.
“Can you not guess? I wanted
to save the situation. Why should poor Florence
be suspected of having written badly when she was young?
It is much more natural for you, who are her true
friend, to uphold her and to allow people to think
that the great talent which she now possesses was
always in evidence. I spoke no less than the truth.
That essay of hers was much commented on and loudly
applauded.”
“Oh, you know you have told
a lie the worst sort of lie,” said
Kitty. “Oh, what am I to say? Sometimes
I hate you.”
“I know you hate me, but you
have no cause to. I am quite on your side.”
“I don’t understand you;
but I will not talk to you any further.”
Kitty rose, crossed the room, and sat down by her
father.
“She is a very nice girl; far
too good to be thrown away on him,” thought
Bertha to herself. “I admire her as I admire
few people. She was always steadfast of purpose
and pure of soul, and will be a charming wife for
a man who loves her, some day; but she is not for Maurice
Trevor. He does not care that for her!
Yes, I know the old folks are plotting and planning;
but all their plots and plans will come to nothing.
There will be a fine fracas soon, and I must
see, whatever happens, that my bread is well
buttered.”