ALMOST BETRAYED.
Florence spent a restless night. She rose early in the morning, avoided
Edith, and went off as soon as she could to the British Museum. She
resolved to write her article in the reading-room. She was soon supplied
with books and pamphlets on the subject, and began to read them. Her
brain felt dull and heavy; her restless night had not improved her
mental powers; try hard as she would, she could not think. She had never
been a specially good writer of the Queen's English, but she had never
felt worse or more incapable of thought than she did this morning. Write
something, however, she must. Tossed about as she had been in the world,
she had not studied the thoughts of men and women on this special
subject. She could not, therefore, seize the salient points from the
pamphlets and books which she glanced through.
The paper was at last produced, and was not so good as the ordinary
schoolgirl's essay. It was feeble, without metaphor, without point,
without illustration. She did not dare to read it over twice.
"It must go," she said to herself; "I can make up for it by a specially
brilliant story of Bertha's for the next number. What will Mr. Franks
say? I only trust he won't find me out."
She directed her miserable manuscript to Thomas Franks, Esq., at the
office of the _Argonaut_, and as she left the museum late in the
afternoon of that day dropped the packet into the pillar-box. She then
went home.
Edith Franks was waiting for her, and Edith happened to be in a
specially good humour.
"Have you done the article?" she said.
"Yes," replied Florence, in a low voice.
"I am glad of it. I felt quite uneasy about you. You seemed so unwilling
to do such a simple thing last night."
"It was not at all a simple thing to me. I am no good at anything except
fiction."
Edith gave her foot an impatient stamp.
"Don't talk rubbish," she said; "you know perfectly well that your style
must come to your aid in whatever you try to write. Then your fiction is
not so remarkable for plot as for the careful development of character
and your pithy remarks. Your powers of epigram would be abundantly
brought to the fore in such a subject as Tom asked you to write about.
But never mind, my dear, it is your pleasure to duplicate yourself--I do
not think it is at all a worldly-wise habit; but, of course, that is
your affair. Now come into the dining-saloon at once. I have good news
for you. Tom has obtained tickets for us all three to see Irving in his
great piece--'The Bells.'"
Florence certainly was cheered up by this news. She wanted to forget
herself, to forget the miserable article which she vainly and without
real knowledge of the ordinary duties of an editor hoped that Tom Franks
would not even read. She ate her dinner with appetite, and went
upstairs to her room in high good humour. Her means were sufficiently
good to enable her to dress prettily, and she, Edith, and Tom found
themselves just before the curtain rose in comfortable stalls at the
theatre. Franks was in an excellent humour and in high spirits. He
chatted merrily to both girls, and Florence had never looked better.
Franks gave her a glance of downright admiration from time to time.
Suddenly he bent forward and whispered to her: "What about my article?"
"I posted it to you some hours ago," she answered.
"Ah! that is good." A smile of contentment played round his lips. "I
look forward most eagerly to reading it in the morning," he said: "it
will be at my office by the first post, of course."
"I suppose so," said Florence, in a listless voice. Her gaiety and good
humour suddenly deserted her.
The play proceeded; Edith was all critical attention, Franks also warmly
approved, and Florence forgot herself in her absorbing interest. But
between the acts the thought of her miserable schoolgirl essay came back
to haunt her. Just before the curtain rose for the final act she touched
Franks on his sleeve.
"What is it?" he said, looking at her.
"I wish you would make me a promise."
"What is that?"
"Don't read the stuff I have sent you; it is not good. If you don't like
it, send it back to me."
"I cannot do that, for I have advertised your name. You simply must put
something into the first number, but of course it will be good: you
could not write anything poor."
"Oh, you don't know. Mine is a queer brain: sometimes it won't act at
all. I was not pleased with the article. Perhaps the public would
overlook it, if you would only promise not to read it."
"My dear Miss Aylmer, I would do a great deal for you, but now you ask
for the impossible. I must read what you have written. I have no doubt I
shall be charmed with it."
Florence sat back in her seat; she could do nothing further.
The next day, when he arrived at his office, Tom Franks eagerly pounced
upon Florence's foolscap envelope. He tore it open and began to read the
silly stuff she had written. He had not gone half-way down the first
page before the whole expression of his face altered. Bewilderment,
astonishment, almost disgust, spread themselves over his features. He
turned page after page, looked back at the beginning, glanced at the
end, then set himself deliberately to digest Florence's poor attempt
from the first word to the last. He flung the paper from him with a
gesture of despair. Had she done it to trick him? Positively the
production was scarcely respectable. A third-form schoolgirl would have
done better. There were even one or two mistakes in spelling, the
grammar was slipshod, the different utterances what few schoolgirls
would have attempted to make: so banal, so threadbare, so used-up were
they. Where was that terse and vigorous style? Where were those
epigrammatic utterances? Where was the pure Saxon which had delighted
his scholarly mind in the stories which she had written?
He rang his office bell sharply. A clerk appeared.
"Bring me the last number of the _Argonaut_," he said.
It was brought immediately, and Franks opened it at Florence's last
story. He read a sentence or two, compared the style of the story with
the style of the article, and finally shut up the _Argonaut_ and went
into his chief's room.
"I have a disappointment for you, Mr. Anderson," he said.
"What is that, Franks?" asked the chief, raising his head from a pile of
papers over which he was bending.
"Why, our _rara avis_, our new star of the literary firmament, has come
to a complete collapse. Something has snuffed her out; she has written
rubbish."
"What? you surely do not allude to Miss Aylmer?"
"I do. I asked her to do a paper for the _General Review_, thinking that
her name would be a great catch in the first number. She consented, I
must say with some unwillingness, and sent me _this_. Look it over and
tell me what you think."
Mr. Anderson read the first one or two sentences.
"She must have done it to play a trick on us," he said; "it is
absolutely impossible that this can be her writing."
"It cannot be printed," said Franks; "what is to be done?"
"You had better go and see her at once. Have you any explanation to
offer?"
"None; it must be a trick. See for yourself how her opening sentence
starts in this story: there is a dignity about each word; the style is
beautiful. Compare it with this." As Franks spoke he pointed to a
paragraph of the _Argonaut_ and a paragraph in poor Florence's essay. "I
will rush off at once and see if I can find her," he said; "she must
have sent this to pay me out. She did not want to write; I did not think
she would be so disobliging."
"Offer her bigger terms to send us a paper to-morrow. We must overlook
this very shabby trick she has played on us."
"Of course, the thing could not possibly be printed," said Franks. "I
will go and see her."
He snatched up his hat, hailed a hansom, and drove straight to Prince's
Mansions, and arrived there just as Florence was going out. She turned
pale when she saw him. One glance at his face made her fear the worst.
He had found her out. She leant up against the lintel of the door.
"What is it?" she said.
He glanced at her, and said, in a gruff voice: "Come up to my sister's
room. I must speak to you."
They went upstairs together. As soon as they entered the room, Florence
turned and faced Franks.
"You--of course you won't use it?"
"No; how can I use it? It is stuff; it is worse: it is nursery nonsense.
Why did you send it to me? I did not think that you would play me such a
trick."
"I told you I could only write fiction."
"Nonsense, nonsense! I might have expected something poor compared to
your fiction; but at least you did know the Queen's English: you did
know how to spell. You have behaved very badly, and it is only because
the governor and I feel certain that this is a trick that we put up
with it. Come, have we not offered you enough? I will pay you a little
more, but another essay I must have, and in twenty-four hours from the
present time."
"And suppose I refuse?"
"In that case, Miss Aylmer, I shall be driven to conclude that your
talent was but fictitious, and that--"
"That I am a humbug?" said Florence. A look came into her eyes which he
could not quite fathom. It was a hungry look. They lit up for a moment,
then faded, then an expression of resolve crept round her lips.
"I will write something," she said; "but give me two days instead of
one."
"What do you mean by two days?"
"I cannot let you have it to-morrow evening; you shall have it the
evening after. It shall be good; it shall be my best. Give me time."
"That's right," he said, grasping her hand. "Upon my word you gave me a
horrid fright. Don't play that sort of trick again, that's all. We are
to have that article, then, in two days?"
"Yes, yes."
He left her. The moment he had done so Florence snatched up the paper
which he had brought back, tore it into a hundred fragments, thrust the
fragments into the fire, and rushed downstairs. She herself was
desperate now. She went to the nearest telegraph-office and sent the
following message to Bertha Keys:--
"Expect me at Aylmer's Court to-morrow at ten. Must see you. You can
manage so that my aunt does not know."