THE TELEGRAM.
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."