"The day is so mild," he said, "that it is almost summer. Who would suppose that we were close to December?"

"I have not sent for you, Maurice, to talk of the weather. I have something much more important to say."

"And what is that?" he asked.

"You remember our last conversation in this room?"

He knitted his brows.

"I remember it," he answered.

"I want to carry it on now; we have come to the second chapter."

"What do you mean by that?"

"Our last conversation was introductory. Now the story opens. You have behaved very well, quite as well as I could have expected, during the time that Sharstons and Sir John Wallis have stayed here."

"I am glad you are pleased with my behaviour; but in reality I did not behave well: I mean according to your lights. I am just as much a rebel as ever."

"Maurice, my dear boy, try not to talk nonsense; try to look a little ahead. How old are you?"

"I shall be six-and-twenty early in the year."

"Quite a boy," said Mrs. Aylmer, in a slightly contemptuous voice. "In ten years you will be six-and-thirty, in twenty six-and-forty. In twenty years from now you will much rejoice over what--what may not be quite to your taste at the present moment, though why it should not be--Maurice, it is impossible, absolutely impossible, that you should not love that sweet and beautiful girl."

"Which girl do you mean?" said Trevor.

"Don't prevaricate; you know perfectly well to whom I allude."

"Miss Sharston? She is far too good, far too sweet to have her name bandied between us. I decline to discuss her."

"You must discuss her. You can do so with all possible respect. Kitty Sharston is to be your wife, Maurice."

"She will never be my wife," he replied. His tone was so firm, he stood so upright as he spoke, his eyes were fixed so sternly, that just for a moment Mrs. Aylmer recognised that she had met her match.

"You refuse to do what I wish?" she said then slowly, "I who have done all for you?"

"I refuse to do this. This is the final straw of all. No wealth is worth having at the price you offer. I will only marry the woman I love. I respect, I admire, I reverence Miss Sharston; but I do not love her, nor does she love me. It is sacrilege to talk of a marriage between us. If I offered she would refuse; it is not to be thought of; besides--"

"Why do you stop? Go on. It is just like your grat.i.tude. How true are the poet's words: 'Sharper than serpent's tooth!' But what is your intention in the future?"

"Justice," he replied. "I cannot bear this. It troubles me more than I can say. If you will not reinstate the girl who ought to be your heiress in her right position, I at least will do what I can for her. I will offer her all I have."

"You! you!" Mrs. Aylmer now indeed turned pale. She rose from her seat and came a step nearer the young man.

"You are mad; you must be mad," she said. "What does this mean?"

"It means that I intend to propose for Florence Aylmer. Whether she will accept me or not G.o.d only knows, but I love her."

"You told me a short time ago that you were not her lover."

"I had not then looked into my own heart. Now I find that I care for no one else. Her image fills my mind day and night; I am unhappy about her--too unhappy to endure this state of things any longer."

"Do you think she will take you, a penniless man? Do you think you are a good match for her or for any girl?"

"That has nothing to do with it. If she loves me she will accept all that I can give her, and I can work for my living."

"I will not listen to another word of this. You have pained me inexpressibly."

"You gave me time to decide, and I have decided. If you will forgive Miss Aylmer whatever she happened to do to displease you, if you will make her joint heiress with me in your estates, then we will both serve you and love you most faithfully and most truly; but if you will not give her back her true position I at least will offer her all that a man can offer--his heart, his worship, and all the talent he possesses. I can work for my wife, and before G.o.d I shall be fifty times happier than in my present position."

Mrs. Aylmer pointed to the door.

"I will not speak to you any more," she said. "This is disastrous, disgraceful! Go! Leave my presence!"

CHAPTER x.x.xV.

THE ESSAY AROUSES CRITICISM.

Thomas Franks was much relieved when, on the morning after her return to town, Florence sent him the paper which Bertha had written. Florence herself took the precaution to carefully copy it out. As she did so, she could scarcely read the words; there were burning spots on her cheeks, and her head ached terribly.

Having completed her task, she sent it off by post, and Tom Franks, in good time, received Bertha's work. He read it over at first with some slight trepidation, then with smiling eyes and a heart beating high with satisfaction. He took it immediately to his chief.

"Ah! this is all right," he said; "read it: you will be pleased. It quite fulfills the early promise."

Mr. Anderson did glance rapidly over Bertha's paper.

"Miss Florence Aylmer has done good work," he said, when he had finished reading her pungent and caustic words; "and yet--" A thoughtful expression crossed his face, he was silent for a moment, then he looked up at the young man, who was standing near.

"I doubt if in any way such a paper will help our new production," he said. "It is difficult for me to believe that any girl could write in what I will call so agnostic a spirit. There is a bitterness, a want of belief, an absence of all feeling in this production. I admit its cleverness; but I should be sorry to know much of the woman who has written it."

"I admire talent in any form," said Tom Franks; "it will be inserted, of course. People who want smart things will like it, I am sure. Believe me, you are mistaken; it will do good, not harm."

"It may do good from a financial point of view: doubtless it will," said Mr. Anderson; "but I wish the girl who has those great abilities would turn them to a higher form of expression. She might do great things then, and move the world in a right way."

"I grant you that the whole thing is pessimistic," said Franks; "but its cleverness redeems it. It will call attention, and the next story by Miss Aylmer which appears in the _Argonaut_ will be more appreciated than her last."

"See that that story appears in the next number," said his chief to Franks, and the young man left the room.

Florence received in due time a proof of her paper for correction. There was little alteration, however, needed in Bertha's masterly essay; but Florence was now obliged to read it carefully, and her heart stood still once or twice as she read the expressions which she herself was supposed to have given birth to. She had just finished correcting the proofs when Edith Franks came into the room.

"I have just seen Tom," she said; "he is delighted with your essay. Is that it? Have you corrected it? May I look through it?"

"I would much rather you did not read it, Edith."