MRS. AYLMER'S WILL.
Nothing would induce Florence to go to Aylmer's Court and Mrs. Aylmer
the less, in great distress of mind, was forced to remain with her in
her flat that evening.
Florence gave her the very best that the flat contained, sleeping
herself on the sofa in her sitting-room.
Mrs. Aylmer sat up late and talked and talked until she could talk no
longer. At last Florence got her into bed, and then went to visit Edith
in her room.
"You don't look well," said Edith; "your engagement has not improved
you. What is the matter?"
"I don't exactly know what is the matter," said Florence. "I am worried
about mother's visit. My aunt, Mrs. Aylmer, is dying. She is a very rich
woman. Mother is under the impression that, if she and I went to
Aylmer's Court, Mrs. Aylmer might leave me her property. I don't want
it; I should hate to have it. I have learned in the last few months that
money is not everything. I don't want to have Aunt Susan's money."
"Well," replied Edith, staring her full in the face, "that is the most
sensible speech you have made for a long time. I have closely studied
the question of economics, and have long ago come to the conclusion that
the person of medium income is the only person who is truly happy. I am
even inclined to believe that living from hand to mouth is the most
enviable state of existence. You never know how the cards will turn up;
but the excitement is intense. When I am a doctor, I shall watch
people's faces with intense interest, wondering whether, when their next
illness comes on, they will send for me; then there will be the counting
up of my earnings, and putting my little money by, and living _just_
within my means. And then I shall have such wide interests besides
money: the cure of my patients, their love and gratitude to me
afterwards. It is my opinion, Florence, that the more we live _outside_
money, and the smaller place money takes in the pleasures of our lives,
the happier we are; for, after all, money can do so little, and I don't
think any other people can be so miserable as the vastly rich ones."
"I agree with you," said Florence.
"It is more than Tom does," replied Edith, looking fixedly at her.
"After all, Florence, are you not in some ways too good for my brother?"
"In some ways too good for him?" repeated Florence. She turned very
white. "You don't know me," she added.
"I don't believe I do, and, it occurs to me, the more I am with you the
less I know you. Florence, is it true that you have a secret in your
life?"
"It is quite true," said Florence, raising her big dark eyes and fixing
them on the face of her future sister-in-law.
"And is it a secret that Tom knows nothing about?"
"A secret, Edith, as you say, that Tom knows nothing about."
"How very dreadful! And you are going to marry him holding that secret?"
"Yes; I shall not reveal it. If I did, he would not marry me."
"But what is it, my dear? Won't you even tell me?"
"No, Edith. Tom marries me for a certain purpose. He gets what he wants.
I do not feel that I am doing wrong in giving myself to him; but, wrong
or right, the thing is arranged: why worry about it now?"
"You are a strange girl. I am sorry you are going to marry my brother. I
do not believe you will be at all happy, but, as I have said already, I
have expressed my opinion."
"The marriage is to take place quite quietly three weeks from now," said
Florence. "We have arranged everything. We are not going to have an
ordinary wedding. I shall be married in my travelling-dress. Tom says he
can barely spend a week away from his editorial work, and he wants me to
live in a flat with him at first."
"Oh, those flats are so detestable," said Edith; "no air, and you are
crushed into such a tiny space; but I suppose Tom will sacrifice
everything to the sitting-rooms."
"He means to have a salon: he wants to get all the great and witty and
wise around us. It ought to be an interesting future," said Florence in
a dreary tone.
Edith gazed at her again.
"Well," she said, after a pause, "I suppose great talent like yours does
content one. You certainly are marvellously brilliant. I read your last
story, and thought it the cleverest of the three. But I wish you were
not so pessimistic. It is terrible not to help people. It seems to me
you hinder people when you write as you do."
"I must write as the spirit moves me," said Florence, in a would-be
flippant voice, "and Tom likes my writing; he says it grows on him."
"So much the worse for Tom."
"Well, I will say good-night now, Edith. I am tired, and mother will be
disturbed if I go to bed too late."
Florence went into her own flat, shut and locked the door, and, lying
down, tried to sleep. But she was excited and nervous, and no repose
would come to her. Up to the present time, since her engagement, she had
managed to keep thought at bay; but now thoughts the most terrible, the
most dreary, came in like a flood and banished sleep. Towards morning
she found herself silently crying.
"Oh, why cannot I break off my engagement with Tom Franks? Why cannot I
tell Maurice Trevor the truth?" she said to herself.
Early the next day Mrs. Aylmer the less received a telegram from Bertha
Keys. This was to announce the death of the owner of Aylmer's Court.
Mrs. Aylmer the less immediately became almost frantic with excitement.
She wanted to insist on Florence accompanying her at once to the Court.
Florence stoutly refused to stir an inch. Finally the widow was obliged
to go off without her daughter.
"There is little doubt," she said, "that we are both handsomely
remembered. I, of course, have my fifty pounds a year--that was settled
on me many years ago--but I shall have far more than that now, and you,
my poor child, will have a nice tidy fortune, ten to twelve or twenty
thousand pounds, and then if you will only marry Maurice Trevor, who
inherits all the rest of the wealth, how comfortable you will be! I
suppose you would like me to live with you at Aylmer's Court, would you
not?"
"Oh, mother, don't," said poor Florence. "I have a feeling which I
cannot explain that Mrs. Aylmer will disappoint everyone. Don't count on
her wealth, mother. Oh, mother, don't think so much of money, for it is
not the most important thing in the world."
"Money not the most important thing in the world!" said Mrs. Aylmer,
backing and looking at her daughter with bright eyes of horror. "Flo, my
poor child, you really are getting weak in your intellect."
A few moments afterwards she left, sighing deeply as she did so, and
Florence, to her own infinite content, was left behind.
The next few days passed without anything special occurring; then the
news of Mrs. Aylmer's extraordinary will was given to Florence in her
mother's graphic language.
"Although she is dead, poor thing, she certainly always was a monster,"
wrote the widow. "I cannot explain to you what I feel. I have begged of
Mr. Trevor to dispute the will; but, would you believe it?--unnatural
man that he is, he seems more pleased than otherwise.
"My little money is still to the fore, but no one else seems to have
been remembered. As to that poor dear Bertha Keys, she has not been left
a penny. If she had not saved two or three hundred pounds during the
time of her companionship to that heathenish woman, she would now be
penniless. It is a fearful blow, and I cannot think for which of our
sins it has been inflicted on us. It is too terrible, and the way
Maurice Trevor takes it is the worst of all."
When Florence read this letter, she could not help clapping her hands.
"I cannot understand it," she said to herself; "but a great load seems
to have rolled away from me. Of course, I never expected Aunt Susan's
money, but mother has been harping upon it as long as I can remember. I
don't think Maurice wanted it greatly. It seemed to me that that money
brought a curse with it. I wonder if things are going to be happier now.
Oh, dear, I am glad--yes, I am glad that it has not been left to any of
us."
Florence's feelings of rapture, however, were likely soon to be
mitigated. Her wedding-day was approaching.
Mrs. Aylmer the less, who had at first told Florence that she could not
on any account marry for three or four months, owing to the sad death in
the family, wrote now to say that the sooner she secured Tom Franks the
better.
"Maurice Trevor is a pauper," she said, "not worth any girl's serious
consideration. Marry Mr. Franks, my dear Florence; he is not up to much,
but doubtless he is the best you can get. You need not show the smallest
respect to Susan Aylmer; the wedding need not be put off a single hour
on her account."
Nor did Flo nor Tom intend to postpone the wedding. Mrs. Aylmer had not
been loved by Florence, and, as the couple were to be married quietly,
there was not the least occasion why the ceremony should be delayed.
Florence had not a trousseau, in the ordinary sense of the word.
"I have no money," she said, looking full at Edith.
Tom Franks happened to come into the room at the time.
"What are you talking about?" he said. "By the way, here is a letter for
you."
As he spoke, he laid a letter on the table near Florence's side. She
glanced at it, saw that it was in the handwriting of Bertha Keys, and
did not give it a further thought.
"Flo is thinking about her trousseau; all brides require trousseaux,"
said Edith, who, although unorthodox in most things, did not think it
seemly that a bride should go to the altar without fine clothes.
"But why should we worry about a trousseau?" replied Tom. "I take
Florence for what she is, not for her dress; and I can give you things
in Paris," he added, looking at her. "I have some peculiar ideas, and my
own notions with regard to your future dress. You want a good deal of
rich colour, and rich stuffs, and nothing too girlish. You are very
young, but you will look still younger if you are dressed somewhat old,
as I mean to dress you. We will get your evening dress in Paris. I am
not a rich man, but I have saved up money for the purpose."
"I don't really care about clothes at all," said Florence.
"I know that; but you will change your mind. With your particular style,
you must be careful how you dress. I will manage it. Don't waste your
money on anything now. I want you to come to me as you are."
Tom then sat down near Florence, and began to give her particulars with
regard to several flats which he had looked over. He was a keen man of
business, and talked L. _s._ _d._ until the girl was tired of the
subject.
"I shall take the flat in Fortescue Mansions to-morrow morning," he said
finally; "it will just suit us. There is a very fine reception-room,
and, what is still better, all the reception-rooms open one into the
other. We must begin to give our weekly salons as soon as ever you
return from your wedding tour, Florence."
"Surely you will wait until people call on Florence?" interrupted Edith.
"You are too quick, Tom, for anything. You must not transgress all the
ordinary rules of society."
Tom looked at his sister, shut up his firm lips, and turned away; he did
not even vouchsafe to answer.
A moment later, he left the room. It was his custom when he met Florence
to kiss her coldly on the forehead, and to repeat this ceremony when he
left her. He did not neglect this little attention on the present
occasion. As his steps, in his patent-leather boots, were heard
descending the stairs, Edith saw Florence raise her handkerchief to her
forehead and rub the spot which Tom's lips had touched.
"How heartily you dislike him!" said Edith. "I would not marry him if I
were you."
Florence made no reply. She took up her letter and prepared to leave the
room.
"Why do you go? There is a good fire here, and there is none in your
room. Sit by the fire, and make yourself comfy. I am going out for a
little."