"Take care of it," she said; "it is the work of a genius. Now, good night."

Florence went upstairs. Slowly she entered her dismal little attic. She lit a candle, and locked her door. She laid the ma.n.u.script on the chest of drawers. She went some steps away from it as though she were afraid of it; then with a hasty movement she unlocked the drawer where she kept her purse, and thrust the ma.n.u.script in. She locked the drawer again, and put the key into her writing-desk, and then she undressed as fast as ever she could, and got into bed, and covered her head so that she should not see the moon shining into her room, and said under her breath: "O G.o.d, let me sleep as soon as possible, for I cannot, I dare not think."

CHAPTER XVII.

NEARER AND NEARER.

Florence had lived without letters for some time, but now they seemed to pour in. The next morning, as she was preparing her extremely frugal breakfast, consisting of bread without b.u.t.ter and a little weak tea, she heard the postman climbing all the way up to her attic floor. His double knock sounded on her door, and a letter was dropped in. She took it up: it was from her mother. She opened it languidly. Mrs. Aylmer wrote in some distress:--

"MY DARLING CHILD--

"The queerest thing has happened. I cannot possibly account for it. I have been robbed of five pounds. I was on the sands yesterday talking to a very pleasant jolly fat little man, who interested me by telling me that he knew London, and that he considered I had done extremely wrong in allowing you to go there without a chaperon. He described the dangers to which young girls were subjected in such terrible and fearful language that I very nearly screamed.

"I thanked him for his advice, and told him that I would write to you immediately and ask you to come home. My darling, it would be better for us both to starve at home than for you to run the risks which he has hinted at.

"But to come to the real object of this letter. I am five pounds short, my dear Florry--I had five pounds in my pocket, two of which I had received unexpectedly, and three from my very, very tiny income. Sukey and I were going to have quite a little turn-out--a nice tea-party; but fortunately, most fortunately, Providence prevented my ordering the buns and cakes, or sending out the invitations, and when I came in my money was gone. Of course it was not the little man, so do not point your suspicions at him. Somebody robbed the widow. Oh, what a judgment will yet fall upon that head!

"Dear Flo, I know you have something by you--how large a sum you have never confided to your poor mother. Will you lend me five pounds, darling, and send it at once? Quarter-day is coming on, and I have several things to meet. Do not hesitate, my love: it shall be returned to you when I get my next allowance.

"I will write to you later on with regard to your coming back to Dawlish. In the meantime think of your poor mother's distress, and do your utmost for her."

Florence let the letter drop from her hands. She sat before her frugal board, and slowly and listlessly raised her cup of tea to her lips.

"I seem to be pushed gradually nearer and nearer the edge," she said to herself. "What possessed mother to lose that money? Of course the man was a thief. Mother is so silly, and she really gets worse as she grows older. Dear little Mummy, I love her with all my heart; but her want of common-sense does try me sometimes."

The day was going to be a particularly hot one. There was a mist all over the horizon, and the breeze was moving languidly.

Florence had her window wide open, and was wondering how she could live through the day. To-day was Sat.u.r.day. To-morrow she would have a pleasant time. She looked forward to meeting Maurice Trevor more than she dared to admit to herself. She wondered what sort of woman his mother was.

"At any rate," she said to herself, "he is nice. I like him, and I am sure he likes me, and we shall enjoy ourselves on Hampstead Heath. It won't be so hot there; it will be a little bit of the country. I must send mother the five pounds, and I suppose I need not decide about that awful ma.n.u.script till Monday."

These thoughts had scarcely come into her head before there came a knock at her door. Florence went to open it, and Edith Franks, very neatly dressed, and looking business-like and purposeful, with bright eyes and a clear colour in her cheeks, stood on the threshold.

"How do you do?" she said. "I am just off to my work. I am about to have a very hard day, but I thought I would refresh myself with a sight of you. May I come in?"

"Please do," said Florence, but she did not look altogether happy as she gave the invitation. Her bed was unmade, her dressing things were lying about, her breakfast was just the sort which she did not wish the keen-eyed medical student to see. There was no help for it, however.

Edith Franks had come up for the purpose of spying into the nakedness of the land, and spy she did. She looked quickly round her in that darting, bird-like manner which characterised all her movements. She saw the untidy room, she noticed the humble, insufficient meal.

Edith Franks had the kindest heart in the world; but she was sometimes a little, just a very little dest.i.tute of tact.

"My dear," she said, "may I sit down? Your stairs really take one's breath away. I know now what I specially came for. Tom has promised to call for me this morning."

"Who is Tom?" asked Florence.

"Don't you know? What a short memory you have! I told you something about him last night--my clever journalist brother. He is on the staff of the _Daily Tidings_, and the new six-penny magazine that people talk so much about, the _Argonaut_. He has a splendid post, and has great influence. If you will entrust that precious ma.n.u.script to me, I will let Tom see it. He is the best of judges. If he says it is worth anything, your fortune is made. If, on the other hand--"

"Oh, but he won't like it, and I think I would rather not," said Florence. She turned very pale as she spoke. Edith gave her another glance.

"Let me have it," she said. "Tom's seeing it means nothing. I will get him to run his eye over it while we are at lunch together. Here, get it for me; there's a good girl."

Florence rose. Her feet seemed weighted with lead. She unlocked her drawer, took out the ma.n.u.script, and nearly flung it at Edith's head.

She restrained herself, however, and stood with it in her hand looking as undecided as a girl could look.

"You tempt me mightily," she said; "why do you tempt me?"

"To get money for what is such splendid work," said Miss Franks, with a gay laugh. "I am glad I tempt you, for you want money, you poor, proud, queer girl. I like you--I like you much, but you must just let me help you over this crisis. Give it to me, my dear."

She nearly s.n.a.t.c.hed the ma.n.u.script from Florence, and thrust it into a small leather bag which she wore at her side.

"Tom shall tell you what he thinks of it, and now ta! ta!"

CHAPTER XVIII.

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.