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.”