The Time of Roses

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!"

On the afternoon of the day when Mrs. Aylmer the less went to see Florence in London, Mrs. Aylmer the great went down another step in the dark valley. The doctor said that she might live for two or three days more, but that he did not think it likely. The disease was spreading, and soon it would be impossible for her to breathe. She was frightened. She had not spent a specially good life. She had given, it is true, large sums in charity, but she had not really ever helped the poor, and had not brought a smile to the lip or a tear of thankfulness to the eye. She had lived a hard life; she had thought far more of herself than of her neighbour, and now that she was about to die it seemed to her that she was not ready. For the first time, all the importance of money faded from her mind. No matter how rich she was and how great, she would have to leave the world with a naked, unclothed soul. She could not take any of her great possessions with her, nor could she offer to her Maker a single thing which would satisfy Him, when He made up the balance of her account. She was frightened about herself.

"Bertha," she said to her young companion, "come here, Bertha."

Bertha bent over her.

"Is it true that I am not going to get better?"

"You are very ill," said Bertha; "you ought to make your will."

"But I have made it: what do you mean?"

"I thought," said Bertha, "that" – she paused, then she said gravely: "you have not altered it since Maurice Trevor went away. I thought that you had made up your mind that he and Florence Aylmer were not to inherit your property."

"Of course I have," said the sick woman, a frightened, anxious look coming into her eyes. "Not that it much matters," she added, after a pause. "Florence is as good as another, and if Maurice really cares for her – "

"Oh, impossible," said Bertha; "you know you do not wish all your estates, your lands, your money, to pass into the hands of that wicked, deceitful girl."

"I have heard," said Mrs. Aylmer, still speaking in that gasping voice, "that Florence is doing great things for herself in London."

"What do you mean?"

"She is considered clever. She is writing very brilliantly. After all, there is such a thing as literary fame, and if at the eleventh hour she achieves it, why, she as well as another may inherit my wealth, and I am too tired, Bertha, too tired to worry now."

"You know she must not have your property!" said Bertha. "I will send for Mr. Wiltshire: you said you would alter the will: it is only to add a codicil to the last one, and the deed is done."

"As you please," said Mrs. Aylmer.

Bertha hurried away.

Mr. Wiltshire, Mrs. Aylmer's lawyer, lived in the nearest town, five miles distant. Bertha wrote him a letter and sent a man on horseback to his house. The lawyer arrived about nine o'clock that evening.

"You must see her at once: she may not live till the morning," said Bertha. There was a pink spot on each of Bertha's cheeks, and her eyes were very bright.

"I made my client's will six months ago. All her affairs are in perfect order. What does this mean?" said Mr. Wiltshire.

"Mrs. Aylmer and I have had a long conversation lately, and I know Mrs. Aylmer wants to alter her will," said Bertha. "Mr. Trevor has offended her seriously: he has repudiated all her kindness and left the house."

"Dear, dear!" said the lawyer; "how sad!"

"How ungrateful, you mean!" said Bertha.

"That is quite true. How different from your conduct, my dear young lady."

As the lawyer spoke, he looked full into Bertha's excited face.

"Ah!" said Miss Keys, with a sigh, "if I had that wealth I should know what to do with it; for instance, you, Mr. Wiltshire, should not suffer."

Now, Mr. Wiltshire was not immaculate. He had often admired Bertha: he had thought her an extremely taking girl. It had even occurred to him that, under certain conditions, she might be a very suitable wife for him. He was a widower of ten years' standing.

"I will see my client now that I have come," he said, rising. "Perhaps you had better prepare her for my visit."

"She knows you are coming. I will take you up at once."

"But it may be too great a shock."

"Not at all; she is past all that sort of thing. Come this way."

Bertha and the lawyer entered the heavily-curtained, softly carpeted room. Their footsteps made no sound as they crossed the floor. The nurses withdrew and they approached the bedside. Bertha had ink and paper ready to hand. The lawyer held out his hand to Mrs. Aylmer.

"My dear, dear friend," he said, in that solemn voice which he thought befitting a death-bed and which he only used on these special occasions, "this is a most trying moment; but if I can do anything to relieve your mind, and to help you to a just disposition of the great wealth with which Providence has endowed you, it may ease your last moments."

"Yes," said Mrs. Aylmer, in a choking voice, "they are my last moments; but I think all my affairs are settled."

Bertha looked at him and withdrew. Her eyes seemed to say: "Take my part, and you will not repent it."

Mr. Wiltshire immediately took his cue.

"I am given to understand that Mr. Trevor has offended you," he said; "is that so?"

"He has, mortally; but I am too ill to worry now."

"It will be easy to put a codicil to your will if you have any fresh desires with regard to your property," said Mr. Wiltshire.

"I am dying, Mr. Wiltshire. When you come to face death, you don't much care about money. It cannot go with you, you know."

"But it can stay behind you, my dear madam, and do good to others."

"True, true."

"I fear, I greatly fear that Mr. Trevor may squander it," said Mr. Wiltshire slowly.

"I have no one else to leave it to."

"There is that charming and excellent girl; but dare I suggest it?"

"Which charming and excellent girl?"

"Your secretary and companion, Miss Bertha Keys."

"Ay," said Mrs. Aylmer, "but I should be extremely sorry that she should inherit my money."

"Indeed, and why? No one has been more faithful to you. I know she does not expect a farthing; it would be a graceful surprise. She has one of the longest heads for business I have ever come across; she is an excellent girl."

"Write a codicil and put her name into it," said Mrs. Aylmer fretfully; "I will leave her something."

Pleased even with this assent, somewhat ungraciously given, the lawyer now sat down and wrote some sentences rapidly.

"The sum you will leave to her," he said: "ten, twenty, thirty, forty, shall we say fifty thousand pounds, my dear Mrs. Aylmer?"

"Forty – fifty if you like —anything! Oh, I am choking – I shall die!" cried Mrs. Aylmer.

Mr. Wiltshire hastily inserted the words "fifty thousand pounds" in the codicil. He then took a pen, and called two of the nurses into the room.

"You must witness this," he said. "Please support the patient with pillows. Now, my dear Mrs. Aylmer, just put your name there."

The pen was put into the trembling hand.

"I am giving my money back to – but what does this mean?" Mrs. Aylmer pushed the paper away.

"Sign, sign," said the lawyer; "it is according to your instructions; it is all right. Sign it."

"Poor lady! It is a shame to worry her on the very confines of the grave," said one of the nurses angrily.

"Just write here; you know you have the strength. Here is the pen."

The lawyer put the pen into Mrs. Aylmer's hand. She held it limply for a minute and began to sign. The first letter of her Christian name appeared in a jagged form, the next letter was about to begin when the hand fell and the pen was no longer grasped in the feeble fingers.

"I am about to meet my Maker," she said, with a great sob; "send for the clergyman. Take that away."

"I shall not allow the lady to be worried any longer," said one of the nurses, with flashing eyes.

Mr. Wiltshire was defeated; so was Bertha Keys. The clergyman came and sat for a long time with the sick woman. She listened to what he had to say and then put a question to him.

"I am stronger than I was earlier in the day. I can do what I could not do a few hours back. Oh, I know well that I shall never recover, but before I go hence I want to give back what was entrusted to me."

"What do you mean by that?" he asked.

"I mean my money, my wealth; I wish to return it to God."

"Have you not made your will? It is always right that we should leave our affairs in perfect order."

"I wish to make a fresh will, and at once. My lawyer, Mr. Wiltshire, has come and gone. He wanted me to sign a codicil which would have been wicked. God did not wish it, so He took my strength away. I could not sign the codicil, but now I can sign a fresh will which may be made. If I dictate a fresh will to you, and I put my proper signature, and two nurses sign it, will it be legal?"

"Quite legal," replied the clergyman.

"I will tell you my wishes. Get paper."

The minister crossed the room, took a sheet of paper from a table which stood in the window, and prepared to write.

Mrs. Aylmer's eyes were bright, her voice no longer trembling, and she spoke quickly.

"I, Susan Aylmer, of Aylmer's Court, Shropshire, being quite in my right mind, leave, with the exception of a small legacy of fifty pounds a year to my sister-in-law, Mrs. Aylmer, of Dawlish, all the money I possess to two London hospitals to be chosen by my executor. – Have you put all the money I possess?" she enquired.

"Yes; but is your will fair?" he said. "Have you no other relations to whom you ought to leave some of your wealth?"

"I give all that I possess back to God. He gave me my wealth, and He shall have it again," repeated Mrs. Aylmer; and she doubtless thought she was doing a noble thing.

This brief will was signed without any difficulty by the dying woman and attested by the two nurses. Two hours later, the rich woman left her wealth behind her and went to meet her God.

CHAPTER XLIII.

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.