"Dear Mrs. Aylmer—
"Dear Mrs. Aylmer—
"I have collected a few things which I think may prove useful, in especial the silk dress which you seemed so much to covet. I also send two sovereigns, as I think you will like to have the funds to pay the dressmaker for cutting it down to your figure. Please use the sovereigns in any way you think best."I have a little request to make of you, dear Mrs. Aylmer. I am not likely to come to Dawlish again, but I am much interested in your dear daughter Florence, and would be greatly obliged if you would favor me with her address in London. Will you send it to me by return of post, and will you put it into the addressed envelope which I enclose, as I do not want my benefactress Mrs. Aylmer to know anything about this matter? If I can help you at any time pray command me."Yours sincerely,"Bertha Keys."
"I have collected a few things which I think may prove useful, in especial the silk dress which you seemed so much to covet. I also send two sovereigns, as I think you will like to have the funds to pay the dressmaker for cutting it down to your figure. Please use the sovereigns in any way you think best.
"I have a little request to make of you, dear Mrs. Aylmer. I am not likely to come to Dawlish again, but I am much interested in your dear daughter Florence, and would be greatly obliged if you would favor me with her address in London. Will you send it to me by return of post, and will you put it into the addressed envelope which I enclose, as I do not want my benefactress Mrs. Aylmer to know anything about this matter? If I can help you at any time pray command me.
"Yours sincerely,
"Bertha Keys."
Mrs. Aylmer was so excited by this letter, and by the fact that she possessed two sovereigns more money than she had done when she awoke that morning, that she could scarcely drink the cocoa when Sukey appeared with it.
"Sukey," she exclaimed to that worthy woman, "it never rains but it pours. Wewillhave a tea-party: such a tea-party it shall be; done in style, I can assure you. All the neighbours who have ever shown any kindness to me shall be invited, and we will have the most recherché little set-out. I will go to Crook's, in the High Street, and order the cakes and the pastry and the sandwiches, and we will hire enough cups and saucers and tea-spoons and all the other things which will be necessary."
"You had better begin by hiring an increased apartment, ma'am," said Sukey, in a dubious voice. "I don't say nothing against this parlour, but it ain't to say large. How will you crowd in all the visitors?"
"It is fashionable to have a crowded room," said Mrs. Aylmer, pausing for a moment to consider this difficulty. "People can stand and sit on the stairs; they always do in crushes. This is to be a crush and—"
"How will you pay for it, ma'am?"
"I tell you I have money. What do you say to these?"
As Mrs. Aylmer spoke, she held a sovereign between the finger and thumb of each hand.
Sukey opened her eyes.
"Is it your sister-in-law, ma'am," she said, "that is changing her mind?"
"No, it is not; I wish it were. I can tell you no more, you curious old body; but when both our silk dresses are made to fit us we will have the party."
Sukey went softly out of the room.
"There's something brewing that I don't quite like," she said to herself. "I wish Miss Florence was at home! I wish the missus hadn't those queer mean ways! But there, when all's said and done, I have learned to be fond of her: only she's a very queer sort."
That evening Mrs. Aylmer wrote to Bertha Keys thanking her effusively for the parcel, telling her that she felt that she owed her lovely silk dress to her, and further thanking her for the sovereigns. The letter ran as follows:—
"I am not proud, my dear; and a little extra money comes in extremely handy. I mean to give a party and to show my neighbours that I am as good as any of them. It will be a return for many little kindnesses on their part, and will ensure me a comfortable winter. I shall have so many invitations to tea when they see me in that silk dress, and eat the excellent cakes, muffins, and crumpets, etc., which I shall provide for them, that they won't dare to cut me in the future."If you want dear Florence's address, here it is—12, Prince's Mansions, Westminster. She has taken a room in a sort of common lodging-house, and I understand from the way she has written to me that she is in one of the attics. It seems a sad pity that the dear child should pinch herself as she does, and if you, Miss Keys, could add to your other virtues that of effecting a reconciliation between Florence and her aunt by marriage, you would indeed fill my cup of gratitude to the brim."Yours sincerely,"Mabel Aylmer.""P.S.—If by any chance that most charming young man, Mr. Maurice Trevor, should be coming to Dawlish, I shall always be pleased to give him a welcome. You might mention to him where Florence is staying in London. He seemed to have taken quite a fancy to her, but mum's the word, my dear. Mothers will have dreams, you know."
"I am not proud, my dear; and a little extra money comes in extremely handy. I mean to give a party and to show my neighbours that I am as good as any of them. It will be a return for many little kindnesses on their part, and will ensure me a comfortable winter. I shall have so many invitations to tea when they see me in that silk dress, and eat the excellent cakes, muffins, and crumpets, etc., which I shall provide for them, that they won't dare to cut me in the future.
"If you want dear Florence's address, here it is—12, Prince's Mansions, Westminster. She has taken a room in a sort of common lodging-house, and I understand from the way she has written to me that she is in one of the attics. It seems a sad pity that the dear child should pinch herself as she does, and if you, Miss Keys, could add to your other virtues that of effecting a reconciliation between Florence and her aunt by marriage, you would indeed fill my cup of gratitude to the brim.
"Yours sincerely,
"Mabel Aylmer."
"P.S.—If by any chance that most charming young man, Mr. Maurice Trevor, should be coming to Dawlish, I shall always be pleased to give him a welcome. You might mention to him where Florence is staying in London. He seemed to have taken quite a fancy to her, but mum's the word, my dear. Mothers will have dreams, you know."
Florence settled down in her attic, and made herself as comfortable as circumstances would permit.
With all her faults, and she had plenty, Florence had a straightforward sort of nature. She was alive to temptation, and when occasion rose, as has been already seen, could and did yield to it. But just now she was most anxious to eat the bread of independence, not to sink under the sway of Bertha Keys, to fight her own battle, and to receive her own well-earned reward.
She made her little attic look as neat and cheery as she could; she was extremely saving with regard to her food, and set to work at once trying to obtain employment.
Now, Florence honestly hated the idea of teaching. She was a fairly clever girl, but no more. She had certain aptitudes and certain talents, but they did not lie in the teacher's direction. For instance, she was no musician, and her knowledge of foreign languages was extremely small; she could read French fairly well, but could not speak it; she had only a smattering of German, and was not an artist. Her special forte was English history and literature, and she also had a fair idea of some of the sciences.
With only these weapons in hand, and the sum of twenty pounds in her pocket, she was about to fight the world.
She herself knew well, none better, that her weapons were small and her chance of success not particularly brilliant.
With a good heart, however, she started out from her lodging on the morning after her arrival in town.
She went to a registry-office in the Strand and entered her name there. From this office she went to two or three in the West End, and, having put down her name in each office and answered the questions of the clerk who took her subscription, returned home.
She had been assured in four different quarters that it was only a matter of time; that as soon as ever the schools began she would get employment.
"There is no difficulty," one and all said to her. "You want to get a teacher's post; you are quite sure to succeed. There will be plenty of people requiring assistance of all sorts at the schools when the holidays are over."
"What shall I do in the meantime?" said Florence, who knew that several weeks of the holidays had yet to run.
"In the meantime," said all these people, "there is nothing to do but wait."
Florence wondered if she had really left her mother too soon.
"It would have been cheaper to stay on with the little Mummy," she said to herself; "but, under the circumstances, I could not stay. I dared not leave myself in Bertha's power. August is nearly through, and the schools will open again about the 20th of September. By then I shall surely hear of something. Oh, it is hateful to teach; but there is no help for it."
Accordingly Florence returned home in as fair spirits as was to be expected.
She wrote and told her mother what she had done, and resolved to spend her time studying at the British Museum.
There were not many people yet in London, and she felt strange and lonely. A great longing for her old school life visited her. She wondered where her schoolfellows had gone, and what they were doing, and if they were also as hard pressed as she was.
Her money seemed to her to be already melting away in a remarkably rapid manner. She wanted new boots and a neat new serge dress, and thought she might as well get these necessary articles of apparel now, while she was waiting for a situation, as later; but, although she bought boots at the very cheapest place she could find, her funds melted still further, and before September was half through she had spent between five and six pounds of her small stock of money.
"This will never do," she said to herself; "I shall get so frightened that I shall become nervous. What am I to do? How am I to eke out the money till I get a post as teacher?"
It was already time for different mistresses at schools to be applying to her for her valuable services; but, although she listened with a beating heart as she heard the postman run up the stairs and deposit letters in the different hall doors of the various flats, very seldom indeed did the good man come up as far as her attic, and then it was a letter from her mother.
She decided to go again to the offices where she hadentered her name, and enquire if there were any post likely to suit her which she could apply for. She was now received in a totally different spirit.
"It is extremely unlikely, miss," said one and all of the clerks who had been so specious on the occasion of her first visit, "that we can get you anything to do. You are not a governess, you know, in the ordinary sense. You cannot teach music, nor languages, nor drawing. What can you expect, madam?"
"But you told me," began poor Florence, "you told me when I paid my fee on the previous occasion of calling that you could get me a post without the slightest difficulty."
"We will do our utmost, of course, madam; but, with your want of experience, we can make no definite promise. We certainly made none in the past," and the clerk whom Florence was interrogating gave her a severe glance, which was meant as a dismissal.
"If you cannot get me anything to do as a teacher, is there nothing else you can think of to suit me? Secretaries are sometimes employed, are they not?"
"Secretaryships are not in our line," said the clerk; "at least, not for ladies. People prefer men for the post—clever men who understand shorthand. You, of course, know nothing of that accomplishment?"
"Certainly not! Girls never learn shorthand," said Florence.
She left one office after the other, feeling sadder and sadder.
"What is to be done?" she said to herself, almost in tones of despair.
Florence was returning slowly home by way of Trafalgar Square when she heard a voice in her ear. She turned quickly, and was much astonished to see the bright face and keen blue eyes of Maurice Trevor.
"I thought it must be you," exclaimed the young man. "I am glad to see you. You passed me in a hurry just now, and never noticed me, so I took the liberty of following you. How do you do? I didn't know you were in town."
"I have been in town for over a fortnight," replied Florence. She found herself colouring, then turning pale.
"Is anything the matter? You don't look well."
"I am tired, that is all."
"May I walk part of the way home with you? It is nice to meet an old friend."
"Just as you please," replied Florence.
"Where do you live?"
"I am in a house in Westminster—12, Prince's Mansion, it is called. It is a curious sort of place, and let out in rooms to girls like myself. There is a restaurant downstairs. It is a nice, convenient place, and it is not dear. I think myself very lucky to have a room there."
"I suppose you are," assented Trevor, "but it sounds extraordinary. Do you like living alone in London?"
"I have no choice," replied Florence.
"I was sorry not to have seen you again before we left Dawlish. We had a good deal in common, had we not? That was a pleasant afternoon that we spent together looking at the sea-anemones."
"Very pleasant," she answered.
"And how is your mother, Miss Aylmer, and that nice young friend—I forget her name."
"Mother is quite well. I heard from her a few days ago; and Kitty Sharston is abroad."
"Kitty Sharston: that is a pretty name."
"And Kitty is so pretty herself," continued Florence, forgetting her anxieties, and beginning to talk in a natural way. "She is one of the nicest girls I have ever met. Her father has just returned from India, and he and she are enjoying a holiday together. But now, may I ask you some questions? Why are you not with Mrs. Aylmer and Bertha Keys?"
"I have not been at Aylmer's Court for some days. My mother has not been quite well, and I have been paying her a visit. But do tell me more about yourself. Are you going to live altogether in London?"
"I hope so."
"What a pity I didn't know it before! Mother would so like to know you, Miss Aylmer. I have told her something about you. Won't you come and see her some day? She would call on you, but she is quite an old lady, and perhaps you will not stand on ceremony."
"Of course not. I should be delighted to see yourmother," said Florence, brightening up wonderfully. "I have been very lonely," she added.
"When I go home to-night I will tell mother that I have met you, and she will write to you. Will you spend Sunday with us?"
"Shall you be at home?"
"Yes; I am not going back to Aylmer's Court until Tuesday. I will ask mother to invite you. I could meet you and bring you to Hampstead. We have a cottage in a terrace close to the heath; you will enjoy the air on Hampstead Heath. It is nearly as good as being in the country."
"I am sure it must be lovely. I am glad I met you," said poor Florence.
"You look better now," he answered, "but please give me your address over again."
As Trevor spoke, he took a small, gold-mounted note-book from his pocket, and when Florence gave him the address he entered it in a neat hand.
"Thank you," he said, putting the note-book back into his waistcoat pocket. "You will be sure to receive your invitation. You look more rested now, but you still have quite a fagged look."
"How can you tell? How do you know?"
"I have often watched that sort of look on people's faces. I take a great interest in—oh! so many things, that I could talk to you about if we had time. I am very sorry for Londoners. I should not care to live in London all my life."
"Nor should I; but, all the same, I expect I shall have to. Perhaps I ought to tell you, Mr. Trevor, quite franklythat I am a very poor girl, and have to earn my own living—that is why I am staying in a place like Prince's Mansions. I have an attic in No. 12, a tiny room up in the roof, and I am looking out for employment."
"What sort of employment? What do you want to do?" asked Trevor.
"I suppose I shall have to teach, but I should like to be a secretary."
"A secretary—that is rather a wide remark. What sort of secretary?"
"Oh, I don't know; but anything is better than teaching. It is just because a secretaryship sounds vague that I think I should like it."
Trevor was thinking to himself. After a moment he spoke.
"Do you mind my asking you a very blunt question?"
Florence gave him a puzzled glance.
"What sort of a question? What do you mean?"
"Are you not Mrs. Aylmer's niece?"
"Your Mrs. Aylmer's niece?"
"Yes."
"I am her niece by marriage. Her husband was my father's brother."
"I understand; but how is it she never asks you to Aylmer's Court nor takes any notice of you?"
"I am afraid I cannot tell you."
"Cannot? Does that mean that you will not?"
"I will not, then."
Trevor flushed slightly. They had now nearly reached Westminster.
"Here is a tea-shop," he said; "will you come in and have tea with me?"
Florence hesitated.
"Thank you. I may as well," she said then slowly.
They entered a pretty shop with little round tables covered with white cloths. That sort of shop was a novelty at that time.
Trevor and Florence secured a table to themselves. Florence was very hungry, but she restrained her appetite, fearing that he would notice. She longed to ask for another bun and a pat of butter.
"Oh, dear," she was saying to herself, as she drank her tea and ate her thin bread-and-butter, "I could demolish half the things in the shop. It is perfectly dreadful, and this tea must take the place of another meal. I must take the benefit of his hospitality."
A few moments later Trevor had bidden her good-bye.
"My mother will be sure to write to you," he said.
She would not let him walk with her as far as her lodgings, but shook hands with him with some pleasure in her face.
"I am so glad I met you," she repeated, and he echoed the sentiment.
As soon as he got home that day he went straight to his mother.
"You are better, are you not?" he said to her.
Mrs. Trevor was a middle-aged woman, who was more or less of an invalid. She was devoted to her son Maurice, and, although she delighted in feeling that he was provided for for life owing to Mrs. Aylmer's generosity, she missed him morning, noon, and night.
"Ah, darling, it is good to see you back again," she said; "but you look hot and tired. What a long time you have been in town!"
"I have had quite an adventure," he said. "Mother, I want to know if you will do something for me."
"You have but to ask, Maurice."
"There is a girl"—he hesitated, and a very slight accession of colour came into his bronzed cheeks, "there is a girl I have taken rather a fancy to. Oh, no, I am not the least bit in love with her, so don't imagine it, little mother; but I pity her, and like her also exceedingly. I met her down at Dawlish. I want to know if you will be good to her. I came across her to-day whilst walking in town, and she was looking, oh! so fagged out and tired! I said you would write and invite her to come and see us here, and I promised that you would ask her to spend next Sunday with us."
"Oh, my dear Maurice, your last Sunday with me, God only knows for how long!"
"But you don't mind, do you, mother?"
She looked at him very earnestly. She was a wise woman in her way.
"No, I don't mind," she said; "I will ask her, of course."
"Then that is all right. Her name is Miss Florence Aylmer, and this is her address."
"Aylmer! How strange!"
"It is all very strange, mother. I cannot understand it, and it troubles me a good deal. She is Florence Aylmer, and she is my Mrs. Aylmer's niece by marriage."
"Very queer," said Mrs. Trevor; "I never thought Mrs.Aylmer had any relations. What sort of girl did you say she was?"
"Not exactly handsome, but with a taking face and a good deal of pluck about her—and oh, mother, I believe she is starvingly poor, and she has to earn her own living, I made her have a cup to tea and some bread-and-butter to-night, and she ate as if she were famished. It's awfully distressing. I really don't know what ought to be done."
When Florence reached home she sat down for a long time in her attic, and did not move. She was thoroughly tired, and the slight meal she had taken at the restaurant had by no means satisfied her appetite. After about half an hour of anxious thought, during which she looked far older than her years, she took off her hat, and, going to her tiny chest of drawers, unlocked one of them and took her purse out. She carefully counted its contents. There were twelve unbroken sovereigns in the purse, and about two pounds' worth of silver—nearly fourteen pounds in all.
"How fast it is going!" thought the girl. "At this rate it will not see me through the winter, and, if those terrible people at the different registry-offices are right, I may not get any work during the whole winter. What shall I do? I will not go back to the little Mummy, to live upon her and prove myself a failure. I shall not ask anybody to help me. I must, I will fight my battle alone. Oh, this hunger! What would I not give for a good dinner."
She took up one of the shillings, and looked at it longingly. With this in her hand, she could go down to the restaurant and have as much food as she required. Suddenly she made up her mind.
"I must eat well for once. I must get over this hunger.I cannot help myself," she said to herself. "This meal must last me the greater part of the week; to-morrow and the next day and the next I must do with a bread-and-butter dinner; but there is Sunday to be thought of—Sunday with that nice Mr. Trevor, Sunday with the country air all around, and of course plenty to eat. If I can have a good dinner to-night, I can go without another at least till Sunday."
So, hastily putting back the rest of her money, and locking her drawer, she went downstairs to the restaurant. She went to a table where she had sat before, and ordered her meal. She looked at themenuand ordered her dinner with extreme care. She could have anything she fancied on themenufor a shilling. A good many girls had really excellent and nourishing meals for sixpence, but Florence was so hungry she determined to be, as she expressed it, greedy for once. So she made her selection, and then sat back to wait as best she could for the first of the dishes to arrive.
A girl with a rosy face and bright dark eyes presently came and took the seat opposite to her. She was a stranger to Florence. The waitress came up and asked what the girl would like to have for dinner.
"Soup, please, and a chop afterwards," was the hasty reply.
The waitress went away, and the girl, taking a German book out of her bag, opened it and began to read eagerly. She did not notice Florence, who had no book, and was feeling in a very excited and fractious humour, becoming feverishly anxious for her dinner. Presently Florence dropped her napkin-ring, making a little clatter as she didso. The girl seated opposite started, stopped, and picked it up for her.
"Thank you," said Florence.
There was something in her tone which caused the strange girl to drop her German book and look at her attentively.
"Are you very tired?" she said.
"Tired, yes, but it does not matter," answered Florence.
"It is the hot weather," said the girl; "it is horrid being in town now. I should not be, only—" She paused and looked full at Florence, then she said impulsively: "You will be somewhat surprised: I am going to be a doctor—a lady doctor. You are horrified, no doubt. Before ten years are out there will be women doctors in England: they are much wanted."
"But can you, do they allow you to study in the men's schools?"
"Do they?" said the girl; "of course they don't. I have to go to America to get my degree. I am working here, and shall go to New York early in the spring. Oh, I am very busy, and deeply interested. The whole thing is profoundly interesting, fearfully so. I am reading medical books, not only in English, but also in French and German. Do you mind if I go on reading until dinner arrives?"
"Of course not. Why should you stop your studies on my account?" said Florence.
The girl again favoured her with a keen glance, and then, to Florence's surprise, instead of continuing her reading, she immediately closed her book and looked full across at her companion.
"Why don't you read?" said Florence, in a voice which was almost cross.
"Thank you; I have found other employment."
"Staring at me?"
"Well, yes; you interest me. You arefearfullyneurotic and—and anæmic. You ought to take iron."
"Thank you," said Florence; "I don't want anything which would make me more hungry than I am at present. Iron is supposed to promote appetite, is it not?"
"Yes. Do you live in this house?"
"I do," answered Florence.
"I have taken a room on the third floor, No. 17. What is your number?"
"Oh, I aspire a good bit," said Florence, with the ghost of a smile; "the number of my room is 32."
"May I come and see you?"
"No, thank you."
"What a rude girl! You certainly arefearfullyneurotic. Ah! here comes—no, it's not my dinner, it is yours."
The soup Florence had ordered was placed before her. How she wished this bright-eyed girl, with the rude manner, as she considered, would resume her German.
"Would you like me to go on reading?" said the girl.
"You can please yourself, of course," answered Florence.
"I won't look at you, if that is what you mean; but I do wish, if I may not come to see you, that you will come to see me. There are so few girls at present in the house, and those who are there ought to make friends, ought they not? See: this is my card—Edith Franks."
"And you really mean to be a doctor—a doctor?" saidFlorence, not glancing at the card which her companion pushed towards her.
"It is the dearest dream of my life. I want to follow in the steps of Mrs. Garrett Anderson; is she not noble? I thought you would be pleased."
"I don't know that I am; it does not sound feminine," replied Florence. She was devouring her soup, and hating Edith Franks for staring at her.
Presently Edith's own dinner arrived, and she began to eat. She ate in a leisurely fashion, sipping her soup, and breaking her bread into small portions. She was not very hungry; in fact, she was scarcely hungry at all.
As Florence's own quite large meal proceeded, she began to consider herself the greediest of the greedy.
Miss Franks sat on and chatted. She talked very well, and she had plenty of tact, and soon Florence began to consider her rather agreeable than the reverse. Florence had ordered five distinct dishes for her dinner, and she ate each dish right through. Miss Franks was now even afraid to glance in her direction.
"There is no doubt the poor soul was starving," she said to herself.
At last Florence's meal was over. The two girls left the table together.
"Come to my room, won't you, to-night? It is not seven o'clock yet. I always have cocoa between nine and ten. Come and have a cup of cocoa with me, will you not?"
"Thank you," said Florence; "you are very good. My name is Florence Aylmer."
"And you are studying? What are you doing?"
"I am not studying."
"Aren't you? Then—"
"You are full of curiosity, and you want to know why I am here," said Florence. "I am here because I want to earn my bread. I hope to get a situation soon. I am a girl out of a situation—you know the kind." She gave a laugh, and ran up the winding stairs to her own attic at the top of the house, without glancing back at Edith Franks.
"Shy, poor, and half-starved," said the medical student to herself; "I thought my work would come to me if I waited long enough. I must look after her a little bit."
Meanwhile, the very first thing Florence found when she entered her room was a letter, or, rather, a packet, lying on her table. She pounced upon it, as the hungry pounce on food. Her appetite was thoroughly satisfied at last, and her mind was just in the humour to require some diversion. She thought that she would rather like having cocoa presently with Miss Franks.
"She shall not patronise me; of that I am resolved," thought the proud girl. But here was a letter—a thick, thick letter. She flung herself into the first chair and tore it open. She glanced, a puzzled expression on her face, at pages of closely-written matter, and then picked up a single sheet, which had fallen from the packet. The letter was from Bertha Keys, and ran as follows:—
"My Dear, Good, Brave Flo—
"My Dear, Good, Brave Flo—
"I have obtained your address, no matter how, no matter why, and I write to you. How are you getting on? You did a daring thing when you returned you knowwhat; but, my dear, I respect you all the more for endeavouring to be independent. I think, however, it is quite possible that you may have considered my other suggestion."Now, Flo, I should like to see myself in print—not myself as I am, but my words, the ideas which come through my brain. I long to see them before the world, to hear remarks upon them. Will you, dear Flo, read the tale which I enclose, and if you think it any good at all take it to a publisher and see if he will use it? You had better find an editor of a magazine, and offer it to him. It is not more than four thousand words in length, and it is, I think, exciting; and will you put your name to it and publish it as your own? I don't want the world to know Bertha Keys writes stories, but I should like the world to know the thoughts which come into her head, and if we make a compact between us there can be nothing wrong in it, and—but I will add no more. Do, do, dear Flo, make use of this story. I do not require any money for it. Make what use of it you can, and let me know if I am to send you further MSS."Your aunt, Mrs. Aylmer, is a little more snappish than usual. I have a hard time, I assure you, with her. My great friend, Maurice Trevor, returns, I think, in a day or two. Ah, Florence, you little know what a great, great friend he is!"Yours affectionately,"Bertha Keys."
"I have obtained your address, no matter how, no matter why, and I write to you. How are you getting on? You did a daring thing when you returned you knowwhat; but, my dear, I respect you all the more for endeavouring to be independent. I think, however, it is quite possible that you may have considered my other suggestion.
"Now, Flo, I should like to see myself in print—not myself as I am, but my words, the ideas which come through my brain. I long to see them before the world, to hear remarks upon them. Will you, dear Flo, read the tale which I enclose, and if you think it any good at all take it to a publisher and see if he will use it? You had better find an editor of a magazine, and offer it to him. It is not more than four thousand words in length, and it is, I think, exciting; and will you put your name to it and publish it as your own? I don't want the world to know Bertha Keys writes stories, but I should like the world to know the thoughts which come into her head, and if we make a compact between us there can be nothing wrong in it, and—but I will add no more. Do, do, dear Flo, make use of this story. I do not require any money for it. Make what use of it you can, and let me know if I am to send you further MSS.
"Your aunt, Mrs. Aylmer, is a little more snappish than usual. I have a hard time, I assure you, with her. My great friend, Maurice Trevor, returns, I think, in a day or two. Ah, Florence, you little know what a great, great friend he is!
"Yours affectionately,
"Bertha Keys."
Florence sat for a long time with the manuscript of Bertha's story on her lap. Having read the letter once, she did not trouble herself to read it again. It was the sort of letter Bertha always wrote—the letter which meant temptation, the letter which seemed to drag its victim to the edge of an abyss.
Florence said to herself: "Shall I read the manuscript or shall I not? Shall I put it into the fire or shall I waste a couple of pence in returning it to Bertha, or shall I—"
She did not finish even in her own mind the last suggestion which formed itself in her brain. She had not read the title of the manuscript, but her thoughts kept wandering round and round it to the exclusion of everything else. Presently she took it in her hand, and felt its weight, and then she turned the pages one by one, and glanced at them for a moment, and saw that they were all written out very neatly, in a sort of copper-plate writing which was not the least like Bertha's. Bertha had a bold, dashing sort of hand, but this hand might be the work of anyone—the ordinary clerk used such a handwriting. The words were very easily read. Florence caught herself imbibing the meaning of a whole sentence; then, with a sudden, quick movement, she dashed the manuscriptaway from her to the other side of the room, and walked over and stood by the open window looking across London. She had a headache, brought on through intense excitement, and the view, for the greater part concealed by the interminable London houses, scarcely appealed to her.
"It all looks worldly and sordid," thought the girl to herself. "I suppose it is very nice that I should have this peep across those chimney-tops, and should see those tops of houses, tier upon tier, far away as the skyline, but I am sick of them. They all look sordid. They all look cruel. London is a place to crush a girl; but I—Iwon'tbe crushed."
She paced up and down her room. There was not the slightest doubt that Bertha's letter was the one subject of her thoughts. Suddenly she came to a resolution.
"I know what I'll do," she said to herself; "I won't read that manuscript, but I'll get Miss Edith Franks to read it. I won't tell her who has written it; she can draw her own conclusions. I'll get her to read it aloud to me, and perhaps she will tell me what it is worth. I hope, I do hope to God that it is worth nothing—that it is poor and badly written, and that she will advise the author to put it into the fire, and not to waste her time offering it to a publisher. She shall be the judge of its merits; but I won't decide yet whether I shall use it or not—only she shall tell me whether it is worth using. I am sure it won't be worth using. Bertha wrote a clever essay long ago, but she does not write much, and she must be out of practice; and why should she be so clever and able to do everything so well? But Miss Franks shall decide. She looks as if she could give one a very downright honestopinion, and she is literary and cultivated, and would know if the thing is worth anything. Yes, it is a comfort to come to some decision."
So Florence washed her face and hands, made her hair tidy, and put on a fresh white linen collar, and soon after nine o'clock, with the manuscript in her hand, she ran downstairs, and presently knocked at the door of No. 17. The brisk voice of Miss Franks said: "Come in!" and Florence entered.
"That is right," said Edith Franks; "I am right glad to see you. What do you think of my diggings—nice, eh?"
"Oh, you are comfortable here," said Florence, with the ghost of a sigh, for truly the room, as compared with her own, looked absolutely luxurious. There was a comfortable sofa, which Miss Franks told her afterwards she had contrived out of a number of old packing-cases, and there was a deep straw armchair lined with chintz and abundantly cushioned, and on a table pushed against the wall and on the mantelpiece were jars full of lovely flowers—roses, verbena, sweetbriar, and quantities of pinks. The room was fragrant with these flowers, and Florence gave a great sigh as she smelt them.
"Oh, how sweet!" she said.
"Yes; I put this verbena on the little round table near the sofa; you are to lie on the sofa. Come: put up your feet this minute."
"But I really don't want to," said Florence, protesting, and beginning to laugh.
"But I want you to. You can do as you please in the restaurant, and you can do as you please in your own diggings,but in mine you are to do as I wish. Now then, up go your feet. I am making the most delicious cocoa by a new recipe. I bought a spirit-lamp this morning. You cannot think how clever I am over all sorts of cooking."
"But what are those things on that table?" said Florence.
"Oh, some of my medical tools. I do a tiny bit of dissecting now and then—nothing very dreadful. I have nothing to-night of the least importance, so you need not shudder. I want to devote myself to you."
Florence could not but own that it was nice to be waited on. The sofa made out of packing-cases was extremely soft and comfortable. Miss Franks put pillows for her guest's comfort and laid a light couvre-pied over her feet.
"Now then," she said, "a little gentle breeze is coming in at the window, and the roses and pinks and mignonette will smell more sweetly still as the night advances. I will not light the lamp yet, for there is splendid moonlight, and it is such a witching hour. I can make the cocoa beautifully by moonlight. It will be quite romantic to do so, and then afterwards I will show you my charming reading-lamp. I have a lamp with a green shade lined with white, the best possible thing for the eyes. I will make you a shade when I have time. Now then, watch me make the cocoa, or, if you prefer it, look out of the window and let the moon soothe your ruffled feelings."
"You are very kind, and I don't know how to thankyou," said Florence; "but how can you possibly tell that I have ruffled feelings?"
"See them in your brow, my dear: observe them in your face. I am not a medical student for nothing. I tell you you are anæmic and neurotic; indeed, your nerves have reached a rare state of irritability. At the present moment you are in quite a crux, and do not know what to do. Oh, I am a witch—I am quite a witch; I can read people through and through; but I like you, my dear. You are vastly more interesting to me because you are in a crux, and neurotic and anæmic. Now then, look at your dear lady moon, and let me make the cocoa in peace."
"What an extraordinary girl!" thought Florence to herself; "but I suppose I like her. She is so fearfully downright, I feel almost afraid of her."
Miss Franks darted here and there, busy with her cooking. After a time, with a little sigh of excitement, Florence saw her put the extinguisher on the spirit-lamp. She then hastily lit the lamp with the green shade, and, placing it on the table where the verbena and the sweetbriar and mignonette gave forth such intoxicating odours, she laid a cup of steaming frothy cocoa by Florence's side, and a plate of biscuits not far off.
"Now then, eat, drink, and be thankful," said Miss Franks. "I love cocoa at this hour. Yours is made entirely of milk, so it will be vastly nourishing. I am going to enjoy my cup also."
She flung herself into the straw chair lined with cushions, and took her own supper daintily and slowly. While she ate, her bright eyes kept darting about the room notingeverything, and from time to time fastening themselves with the keenest penetration on Florence's flushed face.
Florence felt that never in the whole course of her life had she enjoyed anything more than that cup of cocoa.
When the meal was finished Miss Franks jumped up and began to wash the cups and saucers.
"You must let me help you," said Florence. She sprang very determinedly to her feet. "I have done these things over and over for mother at home," she said, "and I really must wash my own cup and saucer."
"You shall wipe, and I will wash," said Miss Franks. "I don't at all mind being helped. Division of labour lightens toil, does it not? There, take that tea-towel; it is a beauty, is it not? It is Russian."
It was embroidered at each edge with wonderful stitches in red, and was also trimmed with heavy lace.
"I have a sister in Russia, and she sent me a lot of these things when I told her I meant to take up housekeeping," said Miss Franks. "Now that we have washed up and put everything into apple-pie order, what about that manuscript?"
"What manuscript?" said Florence, starting and colouring.
"The one you brought into the room. You don't suppose I didn't see? You have hidden it just under that pillow on the sofa. Lie down once more on your place of repose, and let me run my eye over it."
"Would you?" said Florence. She coloured very deeply. "Would you greatly mind reading it aloud?"
"You have written it, I presume?" said Miss Franks.
Florence did not say anything. She shut up her mouthinto rather a hard line. Edith Franks nodded twice to herself; then, putting on her pincenez, she proceeded to read the manuscript. She had a perfectly well-trained voice without a great amount of expression in it. She read on at first slowly and smoothly. At the end of the first page she paused for a moment, and looked full up at her companion.
"How well you have been taught English!" she said.
Still Florence did not utter a word.
At the end of the second page Miss Franks again made a remark.
"Your writing is so good that I have never to pause to find out the meaning of a word, and you have a very pure Saxon style."
"Oh, I wish you would go on, and make your comments at the end," said Florence then, in an almost cross tone.
"My dear, that answer of yours requires medicine. I shall certainly insist upon your taking a tonic to your room with you. I can dispense a little already, and have some directions by me. I can make up something which will do you a lot of good."
"Do go on reading," said Florence.
Edith Franks proceeded with the manuscript. Her even voice still flowed on without pause or interruption. At the end of the third or fourth page, however, she ceased to make any remarks: she turned the pages now rapidly, and about the middle of the story her voice changed its tone. It was no longer even nor smooth: it became broken as though something oppressed her, then it rose triumphant and excited. She had finished: she flungthe manuscript back almost at Florence's head with a gay laugh.
"And you pretend, you pretend," she said, "that you are a starving girl—a girl out of a situation! You are a sham, Miss Aylmer—you are a sham."
"What do you mean?" said Florence.
"Why, this," said Edith Franks. She took up the manuscript again.
"What about it? I mean, do you—do you—like it?"
"Like it? It is not that exactly. I admire it, of course. Have you written much? Have you ever published anything?"
"Never a line."
"But you must have written a great deal to have achieved that style."
"No, I have written very little."
"Then you are a heaven-born genius: give me your hand."
Florence slowly and unwilling extended her hand. Miss Franks grasped it in both of hers.
"Flexible fingers," she said, "but not exactly, not precisely the hand of an artist, and yet, and yet you are an artist through and through. My dear, you are a genius."
"I do not know why you say that."
"Because you have written that story, that queer, weird, extraordinary tale. It is not the plot alone: it is the way you have told it, the way the figures group themselves together, the strength that is in them, the way you have grasped the situation; and you have made all those characters live. They move backwards and forwards; they are human beings. I am so glad Johanna won thevictory, she was so brave, and it was such a cruel temptation. Oh, I shall dream of that story, and yet you say you have written very little."
"You jump to conclusions," said Florence. She spoke in a queer voice. "I never told you that I had written that story."
"But you have, my dear; I see it in your face. Oh, I congratulate you."
"Would it be possible to—to publish it?" was Florence's next remark, made after a long pause.
"Publish it? I know half a dozen editors in London who would jump at it. I know a good deal about writing, as it happens. My brother is a journalist, and he has talked to me about these things. He is a very clever journalist, and at one time I had a faint sort of dream that I might follow in his steps, but my own career is better—I mean for me. Publish it; of course, you shall publish it. Editors are only too thankful to get the real stuff, but, poor souls! they seldom do get it. You will be paid well for this. Of course, you will make up your mind to be an author, a writer of short stories, a second Bret Harte. Oh, this is splendid, superb!"
Florence got up from her sofa; she felt a little giddy. Her face was very white.
"Do you—do you know any publishers personally?" was her next remark.
"Not personally, but I can give you a list of half a dozen at least. I shall watch your career with intense interest, and I can advise you too. I tell you what it is—on Sunday I will go and see my brother Tom, and I will tell him about you, and ask him what he would recommend.You must not give yourself away; you have a great career before you. Of course, you will lead the life of a writer, and nothing else?"
"Good night," said Florence; "I am very tired, but I am awfully obliged to you."
"Won't you wait until I make up your tonic?"
"I could not take it to-night. I have a bad headache; I want to go to bed. Thank you so very much."
"But, I say, you are leaving your darling, precious manuscript behind you." Miss Franks darted after Florence, and thrust the manuscript into her hand.
"Take care of it," she said; "it is the work of a genius. Now, good night."
Florence went upstairs. Slowly she entered her dismal little attic. She lit a candle, and locked her door. She laid the manuscript on the chest of drawers. She went some steps away from it as though she were afraid of it; then with a hasty movement she unlocked the drawer where she kept her purse, and thrust the manuscript in. She locked the drawer again, and put the key into her writing-desk, and then she undressed as fast as ever she could, and got into bed, and covered her head so that she should not see the moon shining into her room, and said under her breath: "O God, let me sleep as soon as possible, for I cannot, I dare not think."
Florence had lived without letters for some time, but now they seemed to pour in. The next morning, as she was preparing her extremely frugal breakfast, consisting of bread without butter and a little weak tea, she heard the postman climbing all the way up to her attic floor. His double knock sounded on her door, and a letter was dropped in. She took it up: it was from her mother. She opened it languidly. Mrs. Aylmer wrote in some distress:—