Tea was ready prepared. The sun
came out after the heavy shower, and Florence found
the Trevors even more kind and agreeable than they
had been at lunch. When the meal was over, Trevor
called his mother out of the room. He spoke to
her for a few moments alone, and then she re-entered
the little drawing-room.
Florence was seated by the open window,
looking out. She was resting her chin on the
palm of her hand as she gazed across the rose-garden.
At that moment Trevor went quietly by. He stooped
to pick one or two roses; then he turned and looked
at Florence. Florence smiled very faintly, and
a rush of colour came into Trevor’s face.
Mrs. Trevor then came up to Florence and spoke.
“I do it because my son wishes
it,” she said, “and I also do it because
I take an interest in you. He has told me of your
great success in the literary market. You, young
and inexperienced, have had an article accepted by
so great a magazine as the Argonaut. You
scarcely know what an immense success you have won.
I did not, of course, understand what your occupation
in London was likely to be; but if you are to be a
writer, why not come and live with me here? I
have a nice little room which I can offer you, and
this drawing-room will always be at your disposal,
for I sit as a rule in my dining-room. You can
go into town when you want to, and you will make me
happy, and and I think Maurice would like
it.”
As Mrs. Trevor spoke she looked full
at the girl, and Florence found herself trembling
and even colouring as Trevor’s name was mentioned.
“Will you think over it, my
dear,” said Mrs. Trevor, “and let me know?”
“I will think over it and let
you know. You are very kind to me. I scarcely
know how to thank you enough,” replied Florence.
“As to the terms,” continued
Mrs. Trevor, “they would be very moderate.
My cottage is my own, and I have few expenses.
I could take you in and make you comfortable for fifteen
shillings a week.”
“Oh!” said Florence.
She thought of that money which was getting daily
less. She looked into the lovely garden and her
heart swelled within her. Her first impulse was
to throw her arms round Mrs. Trevor’s neck:
to say it would be peace, comfort, and happiness to
live with her. She would save money, and her
worst anxieties would be removed. But she restrained
herself. There was a heavy weight pressing against
her heart, and even the widow’s kindness scarcely
touched her.
“I will let you know. You are more than
kind,” she said.
A moment afterwards she had said good-bye
to Mrs. Trevor, and Maurice and she were hurrying
down the hill to meet the omnibus which was to convey
the girl back to Prince’s Mansions.
“My mother has told you what
we both wish?” he said. “To be honest
with you, I feel that we owe you something. I
am usurping your place; I can never get over that
fact.”
“I wish you wouldn’t think
of it, for it is not the truth,” said Florence.
“I have told you already that even if you did
not exist I should never inherit a farthing of my
aunt’s money, and what is more,” she added,
the crimson dyeing her cheeks, “I wouldn’t
take it if she offered it to me.”
“You are a strange girl,”
he said. He bade her good-bye as she entered
the omnibus, and then turned to walk up Hampstead Hill
once again.
The next day at twelve o’clock
Florence Aylmer, neatly dressed, and looking bright
and purposeful, and no longer overpowered by any sense
of remorse, appeared at Mr. Anderson’s office.
She was received with the politeness which is ever
accorded to the successful. The very clerks in
the outer office seemed to know that she was not to
be confounded with the ordinary young person who appears
daily and hourly offering unsaleable wares. Florence’s
wares were saleable more than saleable.
She was ushered into a room to wait for a moment, and
then very soon Franks appeared on the scene.
“How do you do, Miss Aylmer?”
he said, coming up in his quick way, and shaking hands
with her. “I am very pleased to see you.
Will you come with me now, as I should like to introduce
you to Mr. Anderson?”
They left the waiting-room together,
went up some broad stairs, and entered a very spacious
apartment on the first floor. Here an elderly
man, of tall presence, with grey hair and a hooked
nose, was waiting to receive them. He stood up
when Florence appeared, bowed to her, and then held
out his hand.
“Will you seat yourself, Miss Aylmer?”
he said.
Florence did so. Mr. Anderson
stood on the hearth and looked her all over.
He had a keen, hawk-like glance, and his scrutiny was
very penetrating. Florence found herself colouring
under his gaze. She had been full of sangfroid
and almost indifference when she entered the office,
but now once again that terrible, overpowering sense
of guilt was visiting her.
Mr. Anderson was a Scotchman to the
backbone, and a man of very few words.
“I read your story,” he
said; “it is sharp and to the point. You
have a nice style and an original way of putting things.
I accepted your story for the Argonaut; it
may not appear for some months, but it will certainly
be published before the end of the year. We had
better now arrange terms. What do you think your
manuscript worth?”
“Nothing at all,” was Florence’s
unguarded answer.
This was so unexpected that both Franks and the editor
smiled.
“You are a very young writer
indeed,” said Mr. Anderson. “You will
soon learn to appraise your wares at their true value.
As this is your first effort I will pay you two guineas
a thousand words. There are, I think, from five
to six thousand words in the manuscript. You will
receive a cheque therefore, say, for twelve guineas
on the day of publication.”
Florence gave a short gasp.
“It really is not worth it,” she said
again.
Franks felt inclined to say:
“Don’t make such a fool of yourself,”
but he restrained himself.
Mr. Anderson now drew his own chair forward and looked
at Florence.
“I should be glad,” he
said, “to receive further contributions.
You have doubtless many ideas, and you have at present
the great and inestimable charm of novelty. You
write in a fresh way. We are always looking for
work of the sort you have given us. I should be
sorry if you took your stories to anyone else.
Would it be possible to make an arrangement for us
to receive all your contributions, say, for twelve
months?”
“I assure you,” here interrupted
Franks, “that this is so unusual an offer that
you would be very silly indeed, Miss Aylmer, to reject
it.”
Florence gazed from one to the other in growing alarm.
“What I mean is this,”
said Anderson, noticing her perturbation and pitying
her supposed innocence. “When your story
appears it will attract the attention of the critics.
It will receive, beyond doubt, some very favourable
comments, and other editors, who equally with myself
are looking out for what is fresh and novel, will
write to you and ask you to work for them. I
do not wish in any way to injure your future prospects;
but I think you would do better for yourself, and eventually
increase the value of your contributions, by giving
us your work during the first year. When can
we find room for this first story of Miss Aylmer’s,
Franks?”
Franks thought for a moment.
“There is no reason why it should
not appear in November,” he said. “We
could dispense with illustrations at least
one illustration will be quite sufficient.”
“Very well; it shall appear
then. You will soon receive proofs, Miss Aylmer;
and can you let me have another small story of about
the same length in a month from now? If your
first story is liked we can find room for another
in December. You will think over my proposal.
I do not want you to hurry nor to appear to coerce
you in any way, but we shall be proud to be the publishers
who introduced you to, I hope, a very large audience.”
Mr. Anderson here got up, and Florence,
seeing that the interview was at an end, bowed and
went away. Franks accompanied her downstairs.
“You will, of course, accept
Mr. Anderson’s offer?” he said.
“Of course I shall,” replied
Florence; “why should I not? But you are
both under a mistake with regard to me. I do not
suppose any other editors will want my contributions;
but if you wish for them you can certainly have them.”
She returned home, avoided Edith Franks,
and stayed for the remainder of that day in her own
attic.
“Soon my pecuniary difficulties
will be at an end,” she said to herself.
“I have not the slightest doubt that I can get
some more stories into the Argonaut this year.
I shall soon get over my remorse; my conscience will
soon cease to prick me. If I receive twelve guineas
for each story I shall earn a considerable sum.
I can then live easily. I do not mind how poorly
I live if only I am assured of a certainty.”
She walked across the room and looked
out; the expression on her face had changed:
it had grown hard and defiant. She took up her
pen, drew a sheet of note-paper before her, and began
to write:
“DEAR BERTHA
“The story is accepted by that
new six-penny magazine, the Argonaut,
and they want more. Please send me something else.
I have succumbed to temptation, and am once again,
as you so earnestly desire, in the toils.
“Yours,
“FLORENCE AYLMER.”
Having written this letter, Florence
proceeded to write another:
“DEAR MRS. TREVOR
“I have thought of your kind
offer of yesterday. Indeed, I have scarcely
ceased to think of it since I left you. It is
with great, great sorrow that I must decline
it. You and your kind son had better think
no more about me. I am not what I seem: I
am not a good girl nor a nice girl in any way.
If I were straight and simple and honest I could
be the happiest of the happy in your house; but
I am not, and I can never tell you what I really
am. Please forget that you ever knew me.
“Yours, with gratitude,
“Florence Aylmer.”