"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 s.p.a.ce; 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 pa.s.sed 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 . _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."

CHAPTER XLIV.

BERTHA CHANGES HER TONE.

Edith pinned on her hat as she spoke, and a moment later left the flat.

Florence looked around her. She sank into an easy-chair, and opened the letter. It was, as she already knew, from Bertha. She began to read it languidly, but soon its contents caused her to start; her eyes grew bright with a strange mixture of fear, relief, and apprehension. Bertha had written as follows:--