THE LITTLE MUMMY IN LONDON.
Two days later a little woman might have been seen paying a cabman at
the door of No. 12, Prince's Mansions. She argued with him over the
fare, but finally yielded to his terms, and then she tripped upstairs,
throwing back her long widow's veil, which she always insisted on
wearing. She reached the door which had been indicated to her as the one
leading to Florence's room. She tapped, but there was no answer. She
tried to turn the handle: the door was locked. Just as she was so
engaged, a girl with a bright, keen face and resolute manner opened the
next door and popped out her head.
"Pardon me," said Mrs. Aylmer the less, for of course it was she, "but
can you tell me if my daughter Florence is likely to be in soon?"
"Your daughter Florence?" repeated the girl. "Are you Mrs.
Aylmer--Florence's mother?"
"That is my proud position, my dear. I am the mother of that extremely
gifted girl."
"She is out, but I daresay she will be in soon," said Edith Franks.
"Will you come into my room and wait for her?"
"With pleasure. How very kind of you!" said Mrs. Aylmer. She tripped
into the room, accepted the seat which Edith pointed out to her near
the fire, and untied her bonnet strings.
"Dear, dear!" she said, as she looked around her. "Very comfortable
indeed. And is _this_ what indicates the extreme poverty of those lady
girls who toil?"
"That is a remarkable sentence," said Edith. "Do you mind saying it
again?"
Mrs. Aylmer looked at her and smiled.
"I won't say it again," she said, "for it does not fit the circumstance.
You do not toil."
"But indeed I do; I work extremely hard--often eight or nine hours a
day."
"Good gracious! How crushing! But you don't look bad."
"I have no intention of being bad, for I enjoy my work. I am studying to
be a lady doctor."
"Oh, don't," said Mrs. Aylmer. She immediately drew down her veil and
seated herself in such a position that the light should not fall on her
face.
"I have heard of those awful medical women," she said, after a pause,
"and I assure you the mere idea of them makes me ill. I hope they will
never become the fashion. You expect medical knowledge in a man, but not
in a woman. My dear, pray don't stare at me; you may discover that I
have some secret disease which I do not know of myself. I do not wish it
found out even if it exists. Please keep your eyes off me."
"I am not going to diagnose your case, if that is what you mean,"
replied Edith, with a smile. "I am by no means qualified: I have to pass
my exams in America."
"Thank you." Mrs. Aylmer sighed again. "It is a relief to know that at
present you understand but little of the subject. I hope some good man
may marry you and prevent your becoming that monster--a woman doctor.
But now to change the subject. I am extremely anxious for my daughter to
return. I have bad news for her. Can you tell me how she is?"
"Well, I think," replied Edith.
"You know her."
"Oh, yes, rather intimately. Have you not heard our news?"
"What news?"
"She is engaged to my brother."
"What?" cried Mrs. Aylmer. She sprang to her feet; she forgot in her
excitement all fear of the embryo medical woman. She dropped her cloak
and rushed forward to where Edith was standing and seized both her
hands.
"My girl engaged to your brother! And pray who is your brother?"
"A very rising journalist, a remarkably clever man. It is, let me tell
you, Mrs. Aylmer, an excellent match for your daughter."
"Oh, that remains to be seen. I don't at all know that I countenance the
engagement."
"I am afraid you cannot help it now. Florence is of age. I wonder she
did not write to you."
"I may not have received her letter. The fact is I have been away from
home for the last day or two. But I wish she would return, as I have
come on most urgent business. Pray, miss--I do not even know your name."
"Franks," replied Edith: "Edith Franks."
"Pray, Miss Franks, do not spread the story of my daughter's engagement
to your brother just for a day or two. Circumstances may alter matters,
and until a girl has been really _led_ to the altar I never consider
this sort of thing final. Ah! whose step is that on the stairs? I
believe it is my Flo's."
Mrs. Aylmer tripped to the door, flung it open, and stood in an
expectant attitude.
The next moment Florence, accompanied by Tom Franks, appeared. Mrs.
Aylmer looked at him, and in a flash said, under her breath: "The future
son-in-law." Then she went up to Florence and kissed her.
"Oh, mother," said Florence, looking by no means elated at this
unexpected appearance of the little Mummy on the scene, "what has
brought you to town?"
"Most important business, dear. I must see you immediately in your room.
I assure you nothing would induce me to spend the money I did were it
not absolutely necessary that I should see you at once. This gentleman,
you must tell him to go, Florence; I have not a single moment to waste
over him now."
"Let me introduce Mr. Franks to you, mother. Tom, this is my mother. You
know, mother, that I am engaged to Mr. Franks."
"I know nothing of the kind," replied Mrs. Aylmer angrily.
Florence smiled.
"But I wrote to you, mother; I told you everything."
"Perhaps so, dear, but I didn't receive the letter. I cannot acknowledge
the engagement just now. I am very much agitated. Mr. Franks, you will,
I hope, excuse me. Of course I know the feelings of all young men under
such circumstances, and I wish to do nothing rude or in any way
impolite, but just now I _must_ see my daughter alone."
"You had better go, Tom," said Florence. She took the key of her room
out of her pocket, opened the door, and ushered her mother in.
"Now, mother," she said. "Oh, dear, the fire is out." She walked to the
hearth, stooped down, and began to light the fire afresh. Mrs. Aylmer
sat near the window.
"Now, mother," said Florence, just looking round her, "what have you
come about?"
"I thought you would give me a welcome," said Mrs. Aylmer the less; "you
used to be an affectionate girl."
"Oh, used!" said Florence. "But people change as they grow older.
Sometimes I think I have not any heart."
"But you have engaged yourself to that man. I presume you love him."
"No, I don't love him at all."
"Flo, it is impious to hear your talk; it is just on a par with those
awfully clever papers of yours--those stories and those articles. You
have made a terrible sensation at Dawlish. You are becoming notorious,
my dear. It is awful for a little widow like me to have a notorious
daughter. You must stop it, Flo; you really must!"
"Come, mother, I will get you a cup of tea. What does it matter what the
Dawlish people say? You will spend the night, of course?"
"You and I, my dear, will spend some of the night in the train."
"Now, mother, what does this mean?"
"Listen, Flo. Yes, you may get me a cup of tea and a new-laid egg, if
you have such a thing."
"But I have not."
"Then a rasher of bacon done to a turn and a little bit of toast. I can
toast the bread myself. You are not at all badly off in this nice room,
but----"
"Go on, mother, go on; do explain why you have come."
"It is your aunt, dear; she is very ill indeed. She is not expected to
recover."
"What, Aunt Susan?"
"Yes, she has had a serious illness and has taken a turn for the worse.
It is double pneumonia, whatever that means. Anyhow, it is frightfully
fatal, and the doctors have no hope. I went to see her."
"When you heard she was ill, mother?"
"No, I didn't hear she was ill. I felt so desperate about you and the
extraordinary sentiments you were casting wholesale upon the world that
I could stand it no longer, and when you sent me that last cheque I
thought I would make a final appeal to Susan. So I put on my very best
black silk----"
Florence now with a quick sigh resumed her duties as tea-maker. Mrs.
Aylmer was fairly launched on her narrative.
"I put on my very best black silk--the one that nice, charming, _clever_
Miss Keys sent to me--and I told Sukey that I should be away for a
couple of days and that she was to expect me when she heard from me, and
she was _not_ to forward letters. I didn't expect any from you, and your
letters lately have been the reverse of comforting, and I started off
and got to Aylmer's Court yesterday evening. I took a cab and drove
straight there, and when the man opened the door I said: 'I am Mrs.
Aylmer; I have come to see my sister-in-law,' and of course there was
nothing for it but to let me in, although the flunkey said: 'I don't
think she is quite as bad as that, ma'am,' and I looked at him and said:
'What do you mean?' and I had scarcely uttered the words before Miss
Keys, so elegantly dressed and looking such a perfect lady, tripped
downstairs and said, in a kind tone: 'So you have come! I am glad you
have come.' She did, Florence; those were her very words. She said: 'I
am glad you have come.' It was so refreshing to hear her, and she took
me into one of the spacious reception-rooms--oh! my dear child, a room
which ought to be yours by-and-by--and she made me sit down, and then
she told me. There have been dreadful things happening, my dear
Florence, and that wicked young man whom I took such a fancy to has
turned out to be a wolf in sheep's clothing. He broke my poor, dear,
_warm-hearted_ sister-in-law's heart."
"Now, mother, why do you talk rubbish?" said Florence. "You know Aunt
Susan is not warm-hearted."
"She has not been understood," said Mrs. Aylmer, beginning to sob. She
took a handkerchief from her pocket and wiped away her tears. "The
circumstances of her life have proved how warm her heart is," she
continued. "She adopted that young man and he played her false."
"He did not," said Florence.
"He did, Flo; he did. She wanted him to marry--to make a most suitable
match--and he refused her. Bertha told me all about it. He was in love
with some stupid, poor, plain girl, goodness knows where. Bertha said
there was no doubt of it, and he went away and broke with my poor
sister, although she loved him so much and was better than twenty
mothers to him. She had just offered him a thousand a year as
pocket-money. You will scarcely believe it, Flo, but the ungrateful
wretch gave it all up for the sake of that girl. I never heard of such a
man, and to think that I should have angled--yes, I did, dear--that you
should know him!"
"Here is your tea, mother. Can you not stop talking for a little? You
will wear yourself out."
"What a queer, stern, cold voice you have, Florence! You are not half as
interested as you used to be."
"Do drink your tea, mother."
Mrs. Aylmer was not proof against the fragrant cup. She broke a piece of
toast and put it into her mouth, she sipped her tea, but nothing could
stop her narrative.
"Soon after he left, that wicked young man," she resumed, "poor Susan
fell ill. She got worse and worse, and what apparently was only a slight
attack soon assumed serious dimensions, and there is little hope of her
life, and Bertha tells me that she has altered her will or is about to
alter it. I cannot quite make out whether it is done or whether it is
about to be done; but anyhow, Flo, you and I go back to Aylmer's Court
to-night. By hook or by crook we will show ourselves, my love, and I
will take the responsibility of leading you into your aunt's room, and
you shall go on your knees and beg her forgiveness. That is what I have
come about, Florence. It is not too late. Poor Bertha, I can see, is
quite on our side. It is not too late, my love; we will catch the very
next train."
"You don't know what you are saying, mother. It is absolutely impossible
for me to go."
"My dearest Flo, why?"
"Let me tell you something. You blame Mr. Trevor."
"I always blame ungrateful people," said Mrs. Aylmer, putting on a most
virtuous air.
"And yet," said Florence--"yes, I will speak. Do you know who the
worthless girl was for whom he gave up great wealth and a high
position?"
"How can I tell? I don't want to hear her name."
"_I_ was that girl, mother."
"What do you mean?"
"And Bertha knew it," continued Florence; "she knew it well. Oh, I dare
not say much against Bertha, but I won't have Mr. Trevor abused. He
found out, mother, that, worthless as I am, he loved me. Oh, mother,
pity me! pity me!"
Poor Florence suddenly fell on her knees. She bowed her head on the
table and burst into tears. It was not often she cried. Mrs. Aylmer did
not remember seeing Florence weep since that dreadful morning when they
had both fled from Cherry Court in disgrace.
"Flo," she said, "Flo!"
"Pity me, Mummy; pity me!" said Florence.
The next instant the little Mummy's arms were round her.
"Oh, I am so glad you have a heart!" said the little Mummy, "and of
course I don't blame him for loving you, but I do not understand it.
Bertha could not have known. She said she was quite a low sort of
person. Oh, Flo, my love, this is splendid! You will marry him, of
course! I don't believe Susan has altered her will. You will just get
the riches in the very best possible way as his wife. I always said he
was a _most_ charming young man. It was Bertha who turned me against
him. She is awfully clever, Flo, and if I really thought----"
"I dare not say anything against Bertha, mother. But I cannot go to
Aylmer's Court; you must not ask it. I am engaged now to Tom Franks, and
I won't break my engagement off. I am a very, very unhappy girl."