The day was over, the long, exciting, exhausting evening had come to an end. The girls had danced to their hearts' content, had played and romped, and congratulated Florence with all the heartiness of which their frank natures were capable. They had wandered through the grounds in groups to watch the bonfires, they had partaken of the most delicious supper the heart of girl could conceive, and at last, worn out and intensely happy, they had retired to rest.
Three long dormitories had been fitted up for their occupation, but the lucky three had each a very small room to herself. Florence was glad of that. Yes, if she could be glad of anything on that awful, terrible evening, it was the knowledge that she might be alone, all alone for some hours. During those hours she could think, could collect her thoughts, could face the position which she had in future to occupy.
In the pleasure and delight of the evening no one had specially noticed how little Florence spoke. Mrs. Aylmer the less, as the mother of the heroine, minced about with her head in the air, so elated, so excited, so carried out of herself, that not the grandest county lady present had power to awe her.
"Yes, I am the mother of the dear child. Oh, I always knew that she was specially gifted," Mrs. Aylmer was heard to say. "She could learn from the time she was a baby in the most marvellous way, but even I was astonished at her essay; it wrung tears from my eyes."
"It was a very noble work," said the Countess of Archester, slightly bowing her own queenly head, and giving Mrs. Aylmer a half-quizzical, half-pitying glance. "How the girl wrote it, how that woman's daughter could have written such an essay, is a puzzle to me," said the Countess afterwards to her husband.
But Mrs. Aylmer was unconscious that any such remarks were uttered. She was thinking of her own dazzling future, of what Dawlish would mean to her in the time to come, of what Sukey would say, what Ann Pratt would say, what other neighbors would say. All was indeed well; she was the mother of a genius, a girl who had achieved such high honor that her name in future would always be remembered in the neighborhood of Cherry Court School. Yes, it was a proud moment for Mrs. Aylmer, quite the proudest in her life. It is true that Florence had said very little to her mother, that Florence had scarcely responded to Mrs. Aylmer when she had flung her arms round her neck, and pressed up close to her, and looked into her eyes, and said, "My darling! oh, my darling, my sweet, precious daughter, how proud your Mummy is of you!"
Florence had turned away just then, and Mrs. Aylmer had felt that her daughter's hand trembled as it lay for a moment in hers.
But Mrs. Aylmer the great was even more remarkable in her conduct than Mrs. Aylmer the less. She had called Florence to her, and before all the assembled guests had kissed her solemnly.
"You are my daughter henceforth," she said, "my adopted daughter. Not a word, Mabel; this girl belongs to me in the future."
And just then the queerest pang of jealousy had rushed through the heart of Mrs. Aylmer the less, for was it possible that Susan really meant to take her child from her altogether? Was Florence henceforward to be considered by the world as the daughter of Mrs. Aylmer the great? Was she, her real mother, the mother who had nursed her as a baby, who had put up with her childish troubles, to have nothing whatever to do with her in the future? Notwithstanding that crown of glory which seemed to quiver over the forehead of the little widow, she did not like this aspect of the question. She felt she could scarcely stand it. If Susan meant to have the child, then indeed the Scholarship would present a very serious drawback to the mind of Mrs. Aylmer.