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.”