In due time the first number of the
new weekly paper appeared, and Florence’s article
was on the leading page. It created, as Tom Franks
knew it would, a good deal of criticism. It met
with a shower of abuse from one party, and warm notices,
full of congratulation, from another. It certainly
increased the sale of the paper and made people look
eagerly forward to the next work of the rising star.
Florence, who would not glance at
the paper once it had appeared, and who did her utmost
to forget Bertha’s work, tried to believe that
she was happy. She had now really as much money
as she needed to spend, and was able to send her mother
cheques.
Mrs. Aylmer was in the seventh heaven
of bliss. As to Sukey, she was perfectly sick
of hearing of Miss Florence’s talents and Miss
Florence’s success. Mrs. Aylmer the less
thought it high time to write a congratulatory letter
to her daughter.
“My dear Flo,” she wrote,
“you are the talk of the place. I never
knew anything like it. I am invaded by visitors.
I am leading quite a picnic life, hardly ever
having a meal at home, and with your cheques
I am able to dress myself properly. Sukey also
enjoys the change. But why, my dear love, don’t
you send copies of that wonderful magazine, and
that extraordinary review, to your loving mother?
I have just suggested to a whole number of your
admirers to meet me at this house on Wednesday next,
when I propose to read aloud to them either your article
in the General Review or one of your stories
in the Argonaut. Do send me the copies,
dear; I have failed hitherto to get them.”
At this point in her letter Mrs. Aylmer
broke off abruptly. There had come a great blot
of ink on the paper, as if her pen had suddenly fallen
from her hand. Later on the letter was continued,
but in a different tone.
“Our clergyman, Mr. Walker, has
just been to see me. What do you think he
has come about? He brought your paper with him
and read passages of it aloud. He said that
it was my duty immediately to see you, and to
do my utmost to get you into a better frame of
mind.
“He says your style I
am quoting his exact words and your sentiments
are bitterly wrong, and will do a lot of mischief.
My dear girl, what does this mean? Just when
your poor, doting old mother was so full of bliss
and so proud of you, to give her a knock-down
blow of this sort! I must request you, my precious
child, the next time you write for the General
Review, to do a paper which will not cause
such remarks as I have just listened to from
the lips of our good clergyman. You might
write, Florence, a nice little essay on the sins of
ambition, or something of that sort or
what do you say to a paper on flowers, spring
flowers? I think that would be so sweet
and poetic or the sad sea waves? I
really did not know that I had such a clever
brain myself. You must have inherited your
talent from me, darling. Now, do write a paper
on the sad sea waves. I know I shall cry
over it. I feel it beforehand. Don’t
forget, my love, the lessons your poor mother has tried
to teach you. Mr. Walker spoke so severely
that I almost thought I ought to return your
nice cheque for five pounds; but on reflection,
it seemed to me that that would do no good, and that
I at least knew how to spend the money well. I
told him I would give him ten shillings out of
it for the missionary society. He seemed
quite shocked. How narrow-minded some clergymen
are! But there, Flo, don’t forget that the
next paper is to be on spring flowers or the
sad sea waves. It will take like wildfire.
“Your Affectionate Mother.”
This letter was received by Florence
on the following morning. She was seated at her
desk, carefully copying the last production sent to
her by Bertha Keys. It was not an essay this
time, but a story, and was couched in rather milder
terms than her two previous stories. Florence
thrust it into a drawer, read her mother’s letter
from end to end, and then, covering her face with
her hands, sat for a long time motionless.
“I am successful; but it seems
to me I am casting away my own soul,” she said
to herself. “I am not happy. I never
thought, when I could supply mother with as much money
as she needed, when my own affairs were going on so
nicely, when my independence was so far secured, and
when I was on a certain pinnacle of success, that
I could feel as I do. But nothing gives me pleasure.
Even last night, at that party which the Franks took
me to, when people came up and congratulated me, I
felt stupid and heavy. I could not answer when
I was spoken to, nor carry on arguments. I felt
like a fool, and I know I acted as one; and if Mr.
Franks had not been so kind, I doubt not I should
have openly disgraced myself. Oh, dear! the way
of transgressors is very hard, and I hate Bertha
more than words can say.”
Florence was interrupted at this pause
in her meditations by a tap at her door. She
was now able to have two rooms at her command in Prince’s
Mansions, and Franks, who had come to see her, was
ushered into a neatly-furnished but simple-looking
sitting-room.
Florence rose to meet him.
“Are you well?” he said, staring at her.
“Why do you ask? I am perfectly
well,” she replied, in a tone of some annoyance.
“I beg your pardon; you look
so black under the eyes. Do you work too hard
at night?”
“I never work too hard, Mr.
Franks; you are absolutely mistaken in me.”
“I am glad to hear it. Is your next story
ready?”
“I am finishing it.”
“May I see it?”
“No, I cannot show it to you.
You shall have it by to-morrow or next day at latest.”
“Do you feel inclined to do some more essays
for our paper?”
“I would rather not,” said Florence.
“But why so?”
“You didn’t like my last paper, you know.”
“Oh, I admired it for its cleverness.
I didn’t care for the tone. It is unnecessary
to give way to all one’s feelings. When
you have written more and oftener, you will have learned
the art of suppression.”
“I have just had a letter from
mother,” said Florence; “I will show you
her postscript. You will see that, although she
was proud of me, it was the pride of ignorance.
This is what our clergyman, Mr. Walker, says, and
he is right.”
Franks read the few words of the postscript.
“I suppose he is right,”
he answered. He looked full at the girl and half-smiled.
“It would be extremely successful
if you would do a paper in a totally different
tone,” he said; “could you not try?”
“I cannot give what is not in me.”
“Well, have a good try.
Choose your own subject. Let me have the very
best you can. I must not stay any longer now.
The story at least will reach me in good time?”
“Yes, and I think you will like
it rather better than the last. Good-bye,”
said Florence.
He held her hand lingeringly for a
moment, and looked into her face. As he went
downstairs he thought a good deal about her. She
interested him. If he married, he would as soon
have clever and original Florence Aylmer for his wife
as any other woman he had ever met.
He was just leaving the house when
he came face to face with Trevor. Maurice was
hurrying into the house as Franks was going out.
The sub-editor of the Argonaut started when
he saw Trevor.
“Hallo,” he said, “who
would have thought to see you here? How are you?”
“Quite well, thank you.”
“I imagined you to be in the
country safe with that kind old lady who is feathering
your nest.”
“I don’t think that will
come off, Franks; but I do not feel inclined to discuss
it. I have come up to town to see Miss Aylmer.
How is she?”
“Quite well, or, rather, no:
I don’t think she is very well. I have just
seen her. What a wonderfully clever girl she is!”
“So it seems,” said Trevor,
in a somewhat impatient tone. “Is she in?”
“Yes; I have just come from her.”
“Then I won’t detain you
now.” Trevor ran upstairs, and Franks went
quickly back to his office.