A DENOUEMENT.
Tom Franks was seated before his desk in his office. He was a good deal
perturbed. His calm was for the time being destroyed, although it wanted
but a week to his wedding-day. He did not look at all like a happy
bride-groom.
"It is a case of jilting," he said to himself, and he took up a letter
which he had received from Florence that morning. It was very short and
ran as follows:
"I cannot marry you, and you will soon know why. When you know
the reason you won't want me. I am terribly sorry, but sorrow
won't alter matters. Please do not expect the manuscript. Yours
truly,
"FLORENCE AYLMER."
"What does the girl mean?" he said to himself. "Really, at the present
moment, the most annoying part of all is the fact that I have not
received the manuscript. The printers are waiting for it. The new number
of the _Argonaut_ will be nothing without it. The story was advertised
in the last number, and all our readers will expect it."
A clerk came in at that moment.
"Has Miss Aylmer's manuscript come, sir?" he said. "The printers are
waiting for it."
"The printers must wait, Dawson; I shall be going to see Miss Aylmer and
will bring the manuscript back. Here, hand me a telegram form. I want to
send a wire in a hurry."
The clerk did so. Franks dictated a few words aloud: "Will call to see
you at twelve o'clock. Please remain in."
He gave the man Florence's address, and he departed with the telegram.
Franks looked up at the clock.
He thought for a little longer. Anderson opened the door of his room and
called him.
"Is that you, Franks?"
"Yes, sir."
"May I speak to you for a moment?"
"Certainly," replied Franks. He went into his chief's room and shut the
door.
"I have been thinking, Franks," said Mr. Anderson, "whether we do well
to encourage that extremely pessimistic writing which Miss Florence
Aylmer supplies us with."
"Do well to encourage it?" said Franks, opening his eyes very wide.
"I have hesitated to speak to you," continued Mr. Anderson, "because you
are engaged to the young lady, and you naturally, and very justly, are
proud of her abilities; but the strain in which she addresses her public
is beginning to be noticed, and although her talent attracts, her
morbidity and want of all hope will in the end tell against the
_Argonaut_, and even still more against the _General Review_. I wish you
would have a serious talk with her, Franks, and tell her that unless she
alters the tone of her writings--my dear fellow, I am sorry to pain you,
but really I cannot accept them."
Franks uttered a bitter laugh.
"You are very likely to have your wish, sir," he said. "I am even now
writing for the manuscript for the fourth story which you know was
advertised in the last _Argonaut_."
"I believe she will always write according to her convictions."
"And that is what pains me so much," continued Mr. Anderson. "I have
myself looked over her proofs, and have endeavoured to infuse a cheerful
note into them; but cutting won't do it, nor will removing certain
passages. The same miserable, unnatural outlook pervades every word she
says. I believe her mind is made that way."
"You are not very complimentary," said Franks, almost losing his temper.
He was quiet for a moment, then he said slowly: "We are very likely to
have to do without Miss Aylmer. I begin to think that she is a very
strange girl. She has offered to release me from my engagement; in fact,
she has declared that she will not go on with it, and says that she
cannot furnish us with any more manuscripts."
"Then, in the name of Heaven, what are we to do for the next number?"
said Mr. Anderson. "Look through all available manuscripts at once, my
dear fellow; there is not a moment to lose."
"I'll do better than that," replied Franks. "Our public expect a story
by Miss Aylmer in the next number, and if possible they must have it. I
have already wired to say that I will call upon her, and with your
permission, as the time is nearly up, I will go to Prince's Mansions
now."
"It may be best," said Mr. Anderson. He looked gloomy and anxious. "You
can cut the new story a bit cannot you, Franks?"
"I will do my best, sir."
The young man went out of the room. He was just crossing his own
apartment when the door was opened and his clerk came in.
"A lady to see you, sir: she says her business is pressing."
"A lady to see me! Say I am going out. I cannot see anyone at present.
Who is she? Has she come by appointment?"
"She has not come by appointment, sir; her name is Miss Keys--Miss
Bertha Keys."
"I never heard of her. Say that I am obliged to go out and cannot see
her to-day; ask her to call another time. Leave me now, Dawson; I want
to keep my appointment with Miss Aylmer."
Dawson left the room.
He then crossed the room to the peg where he kept his coat and hat, and
was preparing to put them on when once again Dawson appeared.
"Miss Keys says she has come about Miss Aylmer's business, and she
thinks you will not lose any time if you see her, sir."
Bertha Keys had quietly entered the apartment behind the clerk.
"I have come on the subject of Florence Aylmer and the manuscript you
expect her to send you," said Bertha Keys. "Will you give me two or
three moments of your valuable time?"
Dawson glanced at Franks. Franks nodded to him to withdraw, and the next
moment Miss Keys and Mr. Franks found themselves alone.
Franks did not speak at all for a moment. Bertha in the meantime was
taking his measure.
"May I sit down?" she said. "I am a little tired; I have come all the
way from Shropshire this morning."
Franks pushed a chair towards her, but still did not speak. She looked
at him, and a faint smile dawned round her lips.
"You are expecting Florence Aylmer's manuscript, are you not?" she said
then.
He nodded, but his manner was as much as to say: "What business is it of
yours?"
He was magnetized by the curious expression in her eyes; he thought he
had never seen such clever eyes before. He was beginning to be
interested in her.
"I have come about Florence's manuscript; but, all the same, you
bitterly resent my intrusion. By the way, you are engaged to marry
Florence Aylmer?"
"I was," replied Franks shortly; "but pardon me. I am extremely busy: if
she has chosen you as her messenger to bring the manuscript, will you
kindly give it to me and go?"
"How polite!" said Bertha, with a smile. "I have not brought any
manuscript from Florence Aylmer; but I have brought a manuscript from
myself."
Franks uttered an angry exclamation.
"Have you forced your way into my room about that?" he said.
"I have. You have received and published three stories _purporting_ to
be by the pen of Florence Aylmer. You have also published one or two
articles by the same person. You are waiting for the fourth story, which
was promised to the readers of the _Argonaut_ in last month's number.
The first three stories made a great sensation. You are impatient and
disturbed because the fourth story has not come to hand. Here it is."
Bertha hastily opened a small packet which she held in her hand and
produced a manuscript.
"Look at it," she said; "read the opening sentence. I am not in the
slightest hurry; take your own time, but read, if you will, the first
page. If the style is not the style of the old stories, if the matter is
not equal in merit to the stories already published, then I will own to
you that I came here on a false errand and will ask you to forgive me."
Franks, with still that strange sense of being mesmerized, received the
manuscript from Bertha's long slim hand. He sank into his office chair
and listlessly turned the pages.
He read a sentence or two and then looked up at the clock.
"I have wired to Miss Aylmer to expect me at twelve: it is past that
hour now. I really must ask you to pardon me."
"Miss Aylmer will not be in. Miss Aylmer has left Prince's Mansions. I
happened to call there and know what I am saying. Will you go on
reading? You want your story. I believe your printers are waiting for it
even now."
Franks fidgeted impatiently. Once again his eyes lit upon the page. As
he read, Bertha's own eyes devoured his face. She knew each word of that
first page. She had taken special and extra pains with it; it
represented her best, her very best; it was strong, perfect in style,
and her treatment of her subject was original; there was a note of
passion and pathos, there was a deep undercurrent of human feeling in
her words. Franks read to the end.
If he turned the page Bertha felt that her victory would be won--if he
closed the manuscript she had still to fight her battle. Her heart beat
quickly. She wondered what the Fates had in store for her.
Franks at last came to the final word; he hesitated, half looked up,
then his fingers trembled. He turned the page. Bertha saw by the look on
his face that he had absolutely forgotten her. She gave a brief sigh:
the time of tension was over, the victory was won. She rose and
approached him.
"I can take that to another house," she said.
"No, no," said Franks; "there is stuff in this. It is quite up to the
usual mark. So Florence gave it to you to bring to me. Now, you know, I
do not quite like the tone nor does my chief; but the talent is
unmistakable."
"You will publish it, then?"
"Certainly. I see it is the usual length. If you will pardon me, as
things are pressing, I will ring and give this to the printers."
"One moment first. You think that manuscript has been written by
Florence Aylmer?"
"Why not? Of course it has!" He looked uneasily from the paper in his
hand to the girl who stood before him. "What do you mean?"
"I have something to tell you. You may be angry with me, but I do not
much care. _I_ possess the genius, not Florence Aylmer; _I_ am the
writer of that story. Florence Aylmer wrote one thing for you, a
schoolgirl essay, which you returned. I wrote the papers which the
public liked; _I_ wrote the stories which the public devoured. I am the
woman of genius; I am the ghost behind Florence Aylmer; I am the real
author. You can give up the false: the real has come to you at last."
"You must be telling me an untruth," said Franks. He staggered back, his
face became green, his eyes flashed angrily.
"I am telling you the truth; you have but to ask Florence herself. Has
she not broken off her engagement with you?"
"She has, and a good thing, too," he muttered under his breath.
"Ah! I heard those words, though you said them so low, and it is a good
thing for you. You would never have been happy with a girl like
Florence. I know her well. I don't pretend that I played a very nice
part; but still I am not ashamed. I want money now; I did not want money
when I offered my productions to Florence. I hoped that I should be a
very rich woman. My hopes have fallen to the ground; therefore I take
back that talent with which Nature has endowed me. You can give _me_
orders for the _Argonaut_ in the future. You will kindly pay _me_ for
that story. Now I think I have said what I meant to say, and I wish you
good-morning."
"But you must stay a moment, Miss--I really forget your name."
"My name is Keys--Bertha Keys. Other well-known magazines will pay me
for all I can write for them; but I am willing to give you the _whole_
of my writings, say for three months, if you are willing to pay me
according to my own ideas."
"What are those?"
"You must double your pay to me. You can, if you like, publish this
little story about Florence and myself in some of your society gossip--I
do not mind at all--or you can keep it quiet. You have but to say in
one of your issues that the _nom de plume_ under which your talented
author wrote is, for reasons of her own, changed. You can give me a
fresh title. The world will suspect mystery and run after me more than
ever. I think that is the principal thing I have to say to you. Now, may
I wish you good-morning?"
Bertha rose as she spoke, dropped a light mocking curtsey in Franks's
direction, and let herself out of the room before he had time to realize
that she was leaving.