"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 s.p.a.cious 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 circ.u.mstances 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 a.s.sumed 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."

CHAPTER XLII.

BERTHA KEYS DEFEATED.

There is little doubt that Mrs. Aylmer was very ill. Step by step an attack, which was apparently at first of little moment, became serious and then dangerous. The cold became pneumonia, the pneumonia became double pneumonia, and now there was a hard fight for life. Nurses were summoned, doctors were requisitioned, everything that wealth could do was employed for the relief and the recovery of the sick woman. But there are times when Death laughs at wealth, with all its contrivances and all its hopes: when Death takes very little heed of what friends say or what doctors do. Death has his own duty to perform, and Mrs. Aylmer's time had come. Notwithstanding the most recent remedies for the fell disease, notwithstanding the care of the best nurses London could supply and the skill of the cleverest doctors, Death entered that sick-chamber and stood by that woman's pillow and whispered to her that her hour had come.

Mrs. Aylmer, propped up in her bed so that she might breathe better, her face ghastly with the terrible exertion, called Bertha to her side. She could scarcely speak, but she managed to convey her meaning to the girl.

"I am very bad; I know I shall not recover."

"You have to make your will over again," said Bertha, who was as cool as cool could be in this emergency. Not one of the nurses could be more collected or calm than Bertha. She herself would have made a splendid nurse, for she had tact and sympathy, and the sort of voice which never grated on the ear. The doctors were almost in love with her: they thought they had never seen so capable a girl, so grave, so quiet, so suitably dressed, so invaluable in all emergencies.

Mrs. Aylmer could scarcely bear Bertha out of her sight, and the doctors said to themselves: "Small wonder!"