The Time of Roses

  CHAPTER XXIX.

  ALMOST BETRAYED.

  Florence spent a restless night. She rose early in the morning, avoidedEdith, and went off as soon as she could to the British Museum. Sheresolved to write her article in the reading-room. She was soon suppliedwith books and pamphlets on the subject, and began to read them. Herbrain felt dull and heavy; her restless night had not improved hermental powers; try hard as she would, she could not think. She had neverbeen a specially good writer of the Queen's English, but she had neverfelt worse or more incapable of thought than she did this morning. Writesomething, however, she must. Tossed about as she had been in the world,she had not studied the thoughts of men and women on this specialsubject. She could not, therefore, seize the salient points from thepamphlets and books which she glanced through.

  The paper was at last produced, and was not so good as the ordinaryschoolgirl'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 speciallybrilliant story of Bertha's for the next number. What will Mr. Frankssay? I only trust he won't find me out."

  She directed her miserable manuscript to Thomas Franks, Esq., at theoffice of the _Argonaut_, and as she left the museum late in theafternoon of that day dropped the packet into the pillar-box. She thenwent home.

  Edith Franks was waiting for her, and Edith happened to be in aspecially 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 unwillingto do such a simple thing last night."

  "It was not at all a simple thing to me. I am no good at anything exceptfiction."

  Edith gave her foot an impatient stamp.

  "Don't talk rubbish," she said; "you know perfectly well that your stylemust come to your aid in whatever you try to write. Then your fiction isnot so remarkable for plot as for the careful development of characterand your pithy remarks. Your powers of epigram would be abundantlybrought 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 donot think it is at all a worldly-wise habit; but, of course, that isyour affair. Now come into the dining-saloon at once. I have good newsfor you. Tom has obtained tickets for us all three to see Irving in hisgreat piece--'The Bells.'"

  Florence certainly was cheered up by this news. She wanted to forgetherself, to forget the miserable article which she vainly and withoutreal knowledge of the ordinary duties of an editor hoped that Tom Frankswould not even read. She ate her dinner with appetite, and wentupstairs to her room in high good humour. Her means were sufficientlygood to enable her to dress prettily, and she, Edith, and Tom foundthemselves just before the curtain rose in comfortable stalls at thetheatre. Franks was in an excellent humour and in high spirits. Hechatted 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. "Ilook forward most eagerly to reading it in the morning," he said: "itwill be at my office by the first post, of course."

  "I suppose so," said Florence, in a listless voice. Her gaiety and goodhumour suddenly deserted her.

  The play proceeded; Edith was all critical attention, Franks also warmlyapproved, and Florence forgot herself in her absorbing interest. Butbetween the acts the thought of her miserable schoolgirl essay came backto haunt her. Just before the curtain rose for the final act she touchedFranks 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 likeit, send it back to me."

  "I cannot do that, for I have advertised your name. You simply must putsomething into the first number, but of course it will be good: youcould not write anything poor."

  "Oh, you don't know. Mine is a queer brain: sometimes it won't act atall. I was not pleased with the article. Perhaps the public wouldoverlook 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 askfor the impossible. I must read what you have written. I have no doubt Ishall 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 pouncedupon Florence's foolscap envelope. He tore it open and began to read thesilly stuff she had written. He had not gone half-way down the firstpage before the whole expression of his face altered. Bewilderment,astonishment, almost disgust, spread themselves over his features. Heturned page after page, looked back at the beginning, glanced at theend, then set himself deliberately to digest Florence's poor attemptfrom the first word to the last. He flung the paper from him with agesture of despair. Had she done it to trick him? Positively theproduction was scarcely respectable. A third-form schoolgirl would havedone better. There were even one or two mistakes in spelling, thegrammar was slipshod, the different utterances what few schoolgirlswould have attempted to make: so banal, so threadbare, so used-up werethey. Where was that terse and vigorous style? Where were thoseepigrammatic utterances? Where was the pure Saxon which had delightedhis 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 laststory. He read a sentence or two, compared the style of the story withthe style of the article, and finally shut up the _Argonaut_ and wentinto 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 ofpapers over which he was bending.

  "Why, our _rara avis_, our new star of the literary firmament, has cometo a complete collapse. Something has snuffed her out; she has writtenrubbish."

  "What? you surely do not allude to Miss Aylmer?"

  "I do. I asked her to do a paper for the _General Review_, thinking thather name would be a great catch in the first number. She consented, Imust say with some unwillingness, and sent me _this_. Look it over andtell 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 isabsolutely 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 tooffer?"

  "None; it must be a trick. See for yourself how her opening sentencestarts in this story: there is a dignity about each word; the style isbeautiful. Compare it with this." As Franks spoke he pointed to aparagraph of the _Argonaut_ and a paragraph in poor Florence's essay. "Iwill rush off at once and see if I can find her," he said; "she musthave sent this to pay me out. She did not want to write; I did not thinkshe would be so disobliging."

  "Offer her bigger terms to send us a paper to-morrow. We must overlookthis very shabby trick she has played on us."

  "Of course, the thing could not possibly be printed," said Franks. "Iwill go and see her."

  He snatched up his hat, hailed a hansom, and drove straight to Prince'sMansions, and arrived there just as Florence was going out. She turnedpale 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'sroom. I must speak to you."

  They went upstairs together. As soon as they entered the room, Florenceturned 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 atrick."

  "I told you I could only write fiction."

  "Nonsense, nonsense! I might have expected something poor compared toyour fiction; but at least you did know the Queen's English: you didknow how to spell. You have behaved very badly, and it is only becausethe governor and I feel certain that this is a trick that we put upwith it. Come, have we not offered you enough? I will pay you a littlemore, but another essay I must have, and in twenty-four hours from thepresent time."

  "And suppose I refuse?"

  "In that case, Miss Aylmer, I shall be driven to conclude that yourtalent was but fictitious, and that--"

  "That I am a humbug?" said Florence. A look came into her eyes which hecould 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 ofone."

  "What do you mean by two days?"

  "I cannot let you have it to-morrow evening; you shall have it theevening 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 ahorrid fright. Don't play that sort of trick again, that's all. We areto have that article, then, in two days?"

  "Yes, yes."

  He left her. The moment he had done so Florence snatched up the paperwhich he had brought back, tore it into a hundred fragments, thrust thefragments into the fire, and rushed downstairs. She herself wasdesperate now. She went to the nearest telegraph-office and sent thefollowing message to Bertha Keys:--

  "Expect me at Aylmer's Court to-morrow at ten. Must see you. You canmanage so that my aunt does not know."