IS IT "YES" OR "NO"?
Florence sat up long with that letter lying in her lap. The fire burned
low and finally went out. Still she sat by the cold hearth, and once or
twice she touched the letter, and once or twice she read it.
"It burns into me; it is written in my heart in letters of fire," she
said to herself finally, and then she rose slowly and stretched her arms
and crossed the room and looked out at the sky. From the top of her
lofty flat she could see just a little sky above the London roofs. It
was a clear cold night with a touch of frost, and the stars were all
brilliant. Florence gazed up at them.
"There is a lofty and pure and grand world somewhere," she said to
herself; "but it is not for me. Good-bye, Maurice; I could have loved
you well. With you I would have been good, very good: with you I might
have climbed up: the stars would not have been quite out of reach.
Good-bye, Maurice; it is not to be."
She took Bertha's letter, put it on the cold hearth, set fire to it, and
saw it consumed to ashes. Then she undressed and went to bed. Whatever
her dreams were she rose in good time in the morning. She had a
considerable amount to do. She was to see Franks at nine o'clock. She
was to see Trevor later on.
She had to copy a whole very brilliant story of Bertha's. She was a slow
writer and there was nothing of talent in her handwriting.
"I am a very stupid girl when all is said and done," she said to
herself; "I am not even in the ordinary sense of the word well-educated.
I have been years studying, but somehow I think I must have a frivolous
sort of brain. Perhaps I have taken after the little Mummy. The little
Mummy never was clever. She is a dear little mother when all is said and
done, and very comforting when one is in trouble, and if I saw her now I
might break down and fling my arms round her neck and confess to her.
With all her silliness she would comfort me and she would never reproach
me; but I must not tell. There is no softness in my future. Thank
goodness, at least I am young; I may have a great career; I will be
satisfied to be famous. It will be terribly, terribly, difficult to be
famous through the whim of another woman; but I suppose Bertha will not
forsake me."
She dressed, prepared her breakfast as usual, and had just washed up
afterwards and put her little sitting-room in order when Franks's knock
was heard at her door. He entered in that brisk, business-like, utterly
cool way which always characterised him. He looked immaculate and fresh.
He was always extremely particular about his appearance. His collars
were invariably as white as the driven snow, and his clothes well cut.
He dressed himself between the style of a country gentleman and a man of
business. He never wore frock-coats, for instance. He was a small man,
but well made. He held himself upright as a soldier. His black hair was
brushed back from his lofty white brow. He had straight black eye-brows
and a neat little black moustache and straight features. His skin was of
an olive tint. Those well-cut, classical features gave to his face a
certain cold sameness of outline. It was almost impossible to surprise
him or to cause emotion to visit his countenance. He looked now as
composed as though he had merely come to give Florence a fresh order for
work.
"Ah," he said, "there you are. One minute past nine; sorry I am late;
accept my apologies."
Florence pushed forward a chair. She could scarcely bring herself to
speak. Even her lips were white. Franks did not sit; he came a step
nearer.
"I have exactly ten minutes," he said; "this is a purely business
arrangement. Is it to be 'yes' or 'no?'"
"If you will faithfully assure me that--" began Florence, and then she
stopped and wetted her lips. Her mouth was so dry she could scarcely
proceed.
Franks gave an impatient start. He took out his watch and glanced at it.
"Yes," he said, "I am awfully sorry; if it is no, it won't be necessary
to keep me now."
"I must speak; you cannot hurry me."
"Oh, all right; take your own time," said Franks. His face beamed all
over for a moment. He looked at the girl with a certain covetousness.
After all, there was something about her which might develop into
strength and even beauty. She had been pretty last night. She would
assuredly be his stepping-stone to great fame. He was a very clever man
himself, but he was not a genius. With Florence, with their two forces
combined, might they not rise to any position?
"Yes, my dear, yes?" he said. "Sit down, Florence, sit down."
She shivered when he called her by her Christian name, but she did drop
into a chair. He drew his own close to hers.
"Yes, Florence," he said, "what is it? You are about to make conditions.
If they lead to 'yes' I will fulfil them."
"I only want to ask you to repeat something which you said last night."
"What is that?"
"Can you assuredly tell me that you are only marrying me just because
you think that you and I together can be famous?"
"You would not like me to say that sort of thing, would you?"
"On the contrary, if I firmly know, firmly and truly from your own lips,
that you do _not_ love me, that there is no love in the matter, that it
is a mere business arrangement----"
"Well, what?"
"It would be, I think, _possible_."
"Then that means 'yes.' I like you very much. I hope a day may come when
I shall love you."
"I want it clearly to be understood," said Florence, "that I do not wish
for that day. I don't love you at all, and I don't want you to love me;
but if we can, as you say, work in harness, perhaps it would be best.
Anyhow, I----"
"You say 'yes,' my dear girl; that is all I need. We can talk over those
curious ideas of yours later on. You are engaged to me, Florence--come."
He went quickly up to her, put his arm round her waist, drew her close
to him, and kissed her on the forehead.
"I am not repugnant to you, am I?" he said, as she shrank away.
"I don't know," she replied; "I am selling myself and you are buying me:
I hope I shall prove a good bargain. I don't want you to imagine for a
moment that I care for you; but I am selling myself, and it may be
best."
"You must drop all that kind of nonsense when once you are my wife," he
said. "As it is, I bear with it. We shall be married before Christmas.
We will take a flat in a fashionable part and see literary people. We
will start a new salon. Now good-bye; I will call again to-night. By the
way, how is the story getting on?"
"I don't know that I can quite finish it all to-day, but you shall have
it by the time I promised."
"Thank you, Florence. I believe you and I are acting wisely. I hope we
shall be kind to each other: we have a great deal in common. You could
not step up as high as I shall place you without my aid, and you are
useful to me: it is an admirable arrangement. Good-bye, dear."
She shrank so far away that he did not venture to repeat his cold
caress. He again looked at his watch.
"How late I shall be!" he said. "Anderson will be astonished. He will
forgive me, however, when I tell him that I am engaged to my rising
star. Good-bye, Florence."
"Thank God!" she muttered, when the door closed behind him. She had
scarcely time, however, for reflection before it was opened again, and
this time without knocking. Edith Franks, wearing her hat and coat and
buttoning on her gloves, entered briskly.
"I thought I heard Tom going downstairs. So he has been?" she enquired.
"Yes, Edith, he has been."
Edith came nearer and looked at Florence's face.
"So you are to be my sister-in-law," she said.
"Don't scold me, please, Edith."
"Good gracious, no dear; I gave you my word of warning last night. Now I
am all congratulations. You will make a nice little sister-in-law, and
we are proud of your ability. Go on and prosper. You have chosen
ambition. Some women would prefer love, but everyone to their taste. I'm
off. Good-bye, Florence. I see you would much rather not be kissed. Tom
has been doing that, doubtless. I will see you again this evening."
Edith went out of the room in her brisk way. She shut the door quickly.
Florence went straight to the window. She stood there for a minute or
two looking out. Then she dropped into a chair and, taking a sheet of
note-paper, began to write. She was writing to Bertha.
"MY DEAR BERTHA--
"The letter I received from you last night requires no comment.
You may perhaps be glad to hear that I have just engaged myself
to Mr. Franks, the sub-editor of the _Argonaut_, and a very
distinguished man. We are to be married before Christmas. It is
his particular wish that I should go on writing, and it is one
of the conditions that we shall both pursue our own careers
independently of the other, and yet each helped by the other.
You will, I am sure, fulfil your part of the bargain. I shall
want another story of about five thousand words next week, as
terse, and brilliant, and clever as you can make it. I shall
also want an article for the _General Review_. Make it smart,
but avoid the woman question. I have been bullied on the
subject, and did not know how to answer.
"Yours truly,
"FLORENCE AYLMER."
This letter written, Florence did not even wait to read it. She put it
into an envelope, directed it, and ran out with it to the nearest
pillar-box. She dropped it in and returned to the house. It was not yet
eleven o'clock. How tired she was! It was nearly two hours since Franks
and she had ratified their contract. She was engaged now--engaged to a
man who did not profess to love her, for whom she did not feel the
faintest glimmering of affection. She was engaged and safe; yes, of
course she was safe. No fear now of her ghastly secret being discovered!
As long as Bertha lived the stories could be conveyed to her, and the
stories would mean fame, and she would go on adding fame to fame and
greatness to greatness until she was known, not only in England, but in
America, and in the Colonies, as a new writer of great promise, and
Franks would be rich. Oh, yes, he would manage her financial affairs in
the future. He would not allow her to sell her talent for less than it
was worth. He would instruct her how to dress, and how to speak when she
was in public; he would take care that she did not give herself away as
she had all but done last night. He would be her master, and doubtless
she would find herself ruled by an iron rod. But no matter: she was
safe. She would not think even for a moment of what she was throwing
away. Such was her feeling; but never mind: she had chosen the wrong and
refused the right. Great temptation had come, and she had not been able
to resist it, and now the only way was to go straight on; and Franks had
made that way plain. It was the broad road which led to destruction. She
was pricked by many thorns, and the broad road was the reverse of
pleasant, and she saw dizzily how steep the hill would grow by-and-by,
and how fast the descent would be; but never mind: she at least was safe
for the present.
She panted and felt herself turning slightly cold as this last thought
came to her, for there was a tap at the door, and Trevor, his face
white, his grey eyes anxious, an expression of earnestness and love
beaming all over his features, came in.
He was in every way the opposite of Tom Franks.
Florence looked wildly at him. She must go through the dreadful
half-hour which was before her. She hoped he would not stay long: that
he would take his dismissal quietly. She dared not think too hard; she
did her utmost to drive thought out.
"Well," said Trevor, "have I come too early?"
"Oh, no," said Florence, "it is past eleven," and she looked listlessly
at the clock.
He tried to take her hand. She put it immediately behind her.
"You have come to ask me a question, have you not?" she said.
"I have. You promised me your confidence last night."
"I did not promise: I said I might give it."
"Am I to expect it?"
"What do you want to know?"
"I want to know this," said Trevor. He took out of his pocket a copy of
the _General Review_. He opened it at the page where Florence's article
appeared. He then also produced from his pocket-book a tiny slip of
paper, a torn slip, on which, in Bertha Keys's handwriting, was the
identical sentence which had attracted so much attention in the
_Review_.
"Look," he said.
Florence did look. Her frightened eyes were fixed upon the scrap of
paper.
"Where--where did you get that?" she said.
"It is remarkable," he said; "I thought perhaps _you_ would explain. I
have read your paper--I am not going to say whether I like it or not. Do
you remember that day when I saw you and gave you a packet at Hamslade
Station?"
"Quite well."
"I think you would not be likely to forget. I was naturally puzzled to
find you so near Mrs. Aylmer's house and yet not there. The packet I
gave you was from Miss Keys, was it not?"
"There can be no harm in admitting that fact," replied Florence, in a
guarded voice.
He looked at her and shook himself impatiently.
"I was perplexed and amazed at seeing you at the station."
"You ought to try and curb your curiosity, Mr. Trevor," said Florence.
She tried to speak lightly and in a bantering tone. He was too much in
earnest to take any notice of her tone.
"I was curious; I had reason to be," he replied. "I went home. Miss
Keys, Miss Sharston and others were in the hall. They were talking about
you, and Miss Sharston showed me one of your stories. I read it; we both
read it, and with keen curiosity."
"Was it the first or the second?" said Florence.
"The first story. It was clever; it was not a bit the sort of story I
thought you would have written."
Florence lowered her eyes.
"The style was remarkable and distinctive," he continued; "it was not
the style of a girl so young as you are; but of course that goes for
nothing. I went upstairs to Mrs. Aylmer's boudoir: I wanted to fetch a
book. I don't think I was anxious to read, but I was restless. The book
lay on Miss Keys's desk. On the desk also were some torn sheets of
paper. I picked up one mechanically."
"You read what was not meant for you to read!" said Florence, her eyes
flashing.
Trevor gave her a steady glance.
"I admit that I read a sentence--the sentence I have just shown you. I
will frankly tell you that I was surprised at it; I was puzzled by the
resemblance between the style of the story and the style of the
sentence. I put the torn sheet of paper into my pocket-book. I don't
exactly know why I did it at the time, but I felt desperate. I was
taking a great interest in you. It seemed to me that if you did wrong I
was doing wrong myself. It seemed to me that if by any chance your soul
was smirched, or made unhappy, or blackened, or any of its loftiness and
its god-like quality removed, my own soul was smirched too, my own
nature lowered. But I thought no special harm of you, although I was
troubled; and that night I learned for the first time that I was
interested in you because I loved you, because you were the first of all
women to me, and I----"
"Oh, don't," said Florence, "don't say any more." She turned away from
him, flung herself on the sofa, and sobbed as if her heart would break.
Trevor stood near for a little in much bewilderment. Presently she
raised her eyes. He sat down on the sofa by her.
"Why don't you tell me everything, Florence?" he said, with great
tenderness in his tone.
"I cannot: it is too late. Think what you like of me! Suspect me as you
will! I do not think you would voluntarily injure me. I cannot give you
my confidence, for I----"
"Yes, dear, yes; don't tremble so. Poor little girl, you will be better
afterwards. I won't ask you too much; only tell me, sweetest, with your
own lips that you love me."
"I am not sweet, I am not dear, I am not darling. I am a bad girl, bad
in every way," said Florence. "Think of me as you like. I dare not be
near you: I dare not speak to you. Oh, yes, perhaps I _could_ have loved
you: I won't think of that now. I am engaged to another man."
"You engaged!" said Trevor. He sprang to his feet as if someone had shot
him. He trembled a little; then he pulled himself together. "Say it
again."
"I am engaged to Mr. Franks."
"But you were not engaged last night?"
"No."
"When did this take place?"
"Two hours ago; he came at nine--a minute past, I think. We became
engaged; it is all settled. Good-bye; forget me."
Florence still kept her hands behind her. She rose: her miserable
tear-stained face and her eyes full of agony were raised for a moment to
Trevor's.
"Do go," she said; "it is all over. I have accepted the part that is not
good, and you must forget me."