A VESTIGE OF HOPE.
Miss Franks was heard tripping downstairs as fast as her feet could
carry her, and Florence covered her face with her hands.
"I have yielded," she said to herself. "What is to be done?" She got up
desperately.
"I must not think, that is evident," was her next sensation. She could
not take any more breakfast. She was too tired, too stunned, too
unnerved. She dressed herself slowly, and determined, after posting the
necessary money to her mother, to go the round of the different
registry-offices where she had entered her name.
"If there is any chance, any chance at all, I will tell Edith Franks the
truth to-night," she said to herself. "If there is no chance of my
earning money--why, this sum that mother has demanded of me means the
reducing of my store to seven pounds and some odd silver--I shall be
penniless before many weeks are over. What is to be done?"
Florence wrote a short letter to her mother. She made no allusions
whatever to the little woman's comments with regard to the dangers in
which she herself was placed.
"I am extremely likely to die of starvation, but there is no other
danger in my living alone in London," she thought, with a short laugh.
And then she went to a post-office and got the necessary postal orders,
and put them into the letter, and registered it and sent it off.
"Oh, Mummy, do be careful," she said, in the postscript; "it has been
rather hard to spare you this, though, of course I do it with a heart
and a half."
Afterwards poor Florence went the dreary round--from Harley-street to
Bond-street, from Bond-street to Regent-street, from Regent-street to
the Strand did she wander, and in each registry-office she received the
same reply: "There is nothing at all likely to suit you."
At last, in a little office in Fleet-street, she was handed the address
of a lady who kept a school, and who might be inclined to give Florence
a small post.
"The lady came in late last night," said the young woman who spoke to
her across a crowded counter, "and she said she wanted someone to come
and live in the house and look after a lot of girls, and she would be
glad to make arrangements, as term would begin in about a fortnight. You
might look her up. I know the salary will be very small; but I think she
is willing to give board and lodging."
Slightly cheered by this vestige of hope, Florence mounted an omnibus,
and presently found herself at South Kensington. She found the right
street, and stopped before a door of somewhat humble dimensions. She
rang the bell. A charwoman opened the door after some delay, told her
that Mrs. Fleming was within, and asked her what her message was.
Florence said she had come after the post which Mrs. Fleming was
offering.
The charwoman looked dubious.
"I wouldn't if I was you," she said, in a low voice, hiding both her
hands under her apron as she spoke.
Florence would not condescend to consult with the charwoman whether she
was to accept the situation or not. She simply said: "Will you tell your
mistress that I am here?"
"A wilful lass," muttered the old woman, "and I told her she had better
not." She shambled across a dirty passage, and opened a door at the
farther end. A moment later Florence found herself in the presence of a
tall woman with a very much powdered face and untidy hair. This
personage was dressed in rusty black, wore a dirty collar and cuffs, and
had hands evidently long strangers to soap-and-water. She invited
Florence to seat herself, and looked her all over.
"H'm! you've come after the situation. Your name, please."
"Florence Aylmer."
"Your age?"
"I am nearly twenty-one."
"Very young. Have you had experience in controlling the follies of
youth?"
"I have been pupil teacher at my last school for over a year," said
Florence.
"Ah, and where was your school?"
Florence mentioned it.
"Have you ever got into any scrape of any sort, been a naughty girl, or
anything of that kind? I have to make most searching enquiries."
"Why do you ask?" said Florence. She coloured first, and then turned
very pale.
Mrs. Fleming gazed at her with hawk-like eyes.
"Why don't you answer?"
"Because I cannot see," replied Florence, with some spirit, "that you
have any right to ask me the question. I can give you excellent
testimonials from the mistress of the school where I was living."
"That will not do. I find that nothing so influences youth as that the
instructress should give an epitome of her own life, should be able
plainly to show how _she_ has conquered temptation, and risen even above
the _appearance_ of evil. If there is a flaw in the governess, there
will also be a flaw in the pupils--understand, eh?"
"Yes, madam," said Florence; "I am afraid your post won't suit me. I
have certainly a great many flaws; I never supposed you wanted a perfect
governess."
"Impertinent," said Mrs. Fleming. "Here am I ready to offer you the
shelter of my roof, the excellent food which always prevails in this
establishment, and fifteen pounds a year, and yet you talk in that lofty
tone. You are a very silly young woman. I am quite sure you won't suit
me."
"It is a foregone conclusion," said Florence, indulging in a little
pertness as she saw that the situation would no more suit her than she
it. She walked towards the door.
"I will wish you good morning," she said.
"Stay one moment. What can you teach?"
"Nothing that will suit you."
"I must certainly remove my name from that registry-office. I
stipulated that I should see godly maidens of spotless character. You,
who evidently have a shady past, dare to come to me to offer your
polluted services! I will wish you good morning."
"I have already wished you good morning," said Florence. She turned
without another word, and, not deigning to ask the assistance of the
charwoman, left the house.
When she got to the street she was trembling.
"It is hard for girls like me to earn their own bread," she said to
herself. "What is to be done? Nearer and nearer am I getting to the edge
of the cliff. What is to be done?"
She returned home, and spent the rest of the day in a state of intense
depression. Her attic was so suffocating that she could not stay in it,
but there was a general sitting-room downstairs, and she went there and
contrived to make herself as wretched as she could over a well-thumbed
novel which another girl had left behind her on the previous evening.
A certain Miss Mitford, the head of this part of the establishment,
wandered in, saw that Florence was quite alone, noticed how ill and
wretched she looked, and sat down near her.
"Your name is, I think, Aylmer," said this good woman.
"Yes: Florence Aylmer," replied Florence, and she scarcely raised her
eyes from her book.
"You don't look very well. I am going for a little drive: a friend of
mine is lending me her carriage. I have plenty of room for you; will you
come with me?"
"Do you mean it?" said Florence, raising languid eyes.
"I certainly do. My friend has a most comfortable carriage. We will
drive to Richmond Park. What do you say?"
"That I thank you very much, and I--"
"Of course you'll come."
"Yes, I'll come," said Florence. She ran upstairs more briskly than she
had done yet. The thought of the drive, and the peace of being alone
with a woman who knew absolutely nothing about her, was soothing. Miss
Mitford was not remarkable for her penetration of character, but she was
essentially kind.
The carriage arrived and she and Florence got in. They drove for a
quarter of a mile without either of them uttering a word; then the
coachman drew up at a shabby house. Miss Mitford got out, ran up the
steps, and rang the bell; in a moment or two three little girls with
very pasty faces and lack-lustre eyes appeared.
"I am sorry I was late, dears," said Miss Mitford; "but jump in: there
is room for us all in the barouche."
Florence felt now almost happy. There was no chance of Miss Mitford
discovering her secret. Indeed, the superintendent of No. 12, Prince's
Mansions, had not the faintest idea of enquiring into Florence's
affairs. She could bestow a passing kindness on a sad-looking girl, but
it was not her habit to enquire further. She chatted to the children,
and Florence joined in. Presently she found herself laughing.
When they reached the park, they all alighted and sat under the trees,
and Miss Mitford produced a mysterious little basket, out of which she
took milk and sponge-cakes, and Florence enjoyed her feast just as much
as the children did. It was seven o'clock when she arrived home again,
and Edith Franks was waiting for her in the downstair hall.