The Time of Roses Part 45

This letter written, Florence did not even wait to read it. She put it into an envelope, directed it, and ran out with it to the nearest pillar-box. She dropped it in and returned to the house. It was not yet eleven o'clock. How tired she was! It was nearly two hours since Franks and she had ratified their contract. She was engaged now--engaged to a man who did not profess to love her, for whom she did not feel the faintest glimmering of affection. She was engaged and safe; yes, of course she was safe. No fear now of her ghastly secret being discovered!

As long as Bertha lived the stories could be conveyed to her, and the stories would mean fame, and she would go on adding fame to fame and greatness to greatness until she was known, not only in England, but in America, and in the Colonies, as a new writer of great promise, and Franks would be rich. Oh, yes, he would manage her financial affairs in the future. He would not allow her to sell her talent for less than it was worth. He would instruct her how to dress, and how to speak when she was in public; he would take care that she did not give herself away as she had all but done last night. He would be her master, and doubtless she would find herself ruled by an iron rod. But no matter: she was safe. She would not think even for a moment of what she was throwing away. Such was her feeling; but never mind: she had chosen the wrong and refused the right. Great temptation had come, and she had not been able to resist it, and now the only way was to go straight on; and Franks had made that way plain. It was the broad road which led to destruction. She was p.r.i.c.ked by many thorns, and the broad road was the reverse of pleasant, and she saw dizzily how steep the hill would grow by-and-by, and how fast the descent would be; but never mind: she at least was safe for the present.

She panted and felt herself turning slightly cold as this last thought came to her, for there was a tap at the door, and Trevor, his face white, his grey eyes anxious, an expression of earnestness and love beaming all over his features, came in.

He was in every way the opposite of Tom Franks.

Florence looked wildly at him. She must go through the dreadful half-hour which was before her. She hoped he would not stay long: that he would take his dismissal quietly. She dared not think too hard; she did her utmost to drive thought out.

"Well," said Trevor, "have I come too early?"

"Oh, no," said Florence, "it is past eleven," and she looked listlessly at the clock.

He tried to take her hand. She put it immediately behind her.

"You have come to ask me a question, have you not?" she said.

"I have. You promised me your confidence last night."

"I did not promise: I said I might give it."

"Am I to expect it?"

"What do you want to know?"

"I want to know this," said Trevor. He took out of his pocket a copy of the _General Review_. He opened it at the page where Florence's article appeared. He then also produced from his pocket-book a tiny slip of paper, a torn slip, on which, in Bertha Keys's handwriting, was the identical sentence which had attracted so much attention in the _Review_.

"Look," he said.

Florence did look. Her frightened eyes were fixed upon the sc.r.a.p of paper.

"Where--where did you get that?" she said.

"It is remarkable," he said; "I thought perhaps _you_ would explain. I have read your paper--I am not going to say whether I like it or not. Do you remember that day when I saw you and gave you a packet at Hamslade Station?"

"Quite well."

"I think you would not be likely to forget. I was naturally puzzled to find you so near Mrs. Aylmer's house and yet not there. The packet I gave you was from Miss Keys, was it not?"

"There can be no harm in admitting that fact," replied Florence, in a guarded voice.

He looked at her and shook himself impatiently.

"I was perplexed and amazed at seeing you at the station."

"You ought to try and curb your curiosity, Mr. Trevor," said Florence.

She tried to speak lightly and in a bantering tone. He was too much in earnest to take any notice of her tone.

"I was curious; I had reason to be," he replied. "I went home. Miss Keys, Miss Sharston and others were in the hall. They were talking about you, and Miss Sharston showed me one of your stories. I read it; we both read it, and with keen curiosity."

"Was it the first or the second?" said Florence.

"The first story. It was clever; it was not a bit the sort of story I thought you would have written."

Florence lowered her eyes.

"The style was remarkable and distinctive," he continued; "it was not the style of a girl so young as you are; but of course that goes for nothing. I went upstairs to Mrs. Aylmer's boudoir: I wanted to fetch a book. I don't think I was anxious to read, but I was restless. The book lay on Miss Keys's desk. On the desk also were some torn sheets of paper. I picked up one mechanically."

"You read what was not meant for you to read!" said Florence, her eyes flashing.

Trevor gave her a steady glance.

"I admit that I read a sentence--the sentence I have just shown you. I will frankly tell you that I was surprised at it; I was puzzled by the resemblance between the style of the story and the style of the sentence. I put the torn sheet of paper into my pocket-book. I don't exactly know why I did it at the time, but I felt desperate. I was taking a great interest in you. It seemed to me that if you did wrong I was doing wrong myself. It seemed to me that if by any chance your soul was smirched, or made unhappy, or blackened, or any of its loftiness and its G.o.d-like quality removed, my own soul was smirched too, my own nature lowered. But I thought no special harm of you, although I was troubled; and that night I learned for the first time that I was interested in you because I loved you, because you were the first of all women to me, and I----"

"Oh, don't," said Florence, "don't say any more." She turned away from him, flung herself on the sofa, and sobbed as if her heart would break.

Trevor stood near for a little in much bewilderment. Presently she raised her eyes. He sat down on the sofa by her.

"Why don't you tell me everything, Florence?" he said, with great tenderness in his tone.

"I cannot: it is too late. Think what you like of me! Suspect me as you will! I do not think you would voluntarily injure me. I cannot give you my confidence, for I----"

"Yes, dear, yes; don't tremble so. Poor little girl, you will be better afterwards. I won't ask you too much; only tell me, sweetest, with your own lips that you love me."

"I am not sweet, I am not dear, I am not darling. I am a bad girl, bad in every way," said Florence. "Think of me as you like. I dare not be near you: I dare not speak to you. Oh, yes, perhaps I _could_ have loved you: I won't think of that now. I am engaged to another man."

"You engaged!" said Trevor. He sprang to his feet as if someone had shot him. He trembled a little; then he pulled himself together. "Say it again."

"I am engaged to Mr. Franks."

"But you were not engaged last night?"

"No."

"When did this take place?"

"Two hours ago; he came at nine--a minute past, I think. We became engaged; it is all settled. Good-bye; forget me."

Florence still kept her hands behind her. She rose: her miserable tear-stained face and her eyes full of agony were raised for a moment to Trevor's.

"Do go," she said; "it is all over. I have accepted the part that is not good, and you must forget me."

CHAPTER XLI.

THE LITTLE MUMMY IN LONDON.