The Time of Roses

by L. T. Meade

  CHAPTER XXVIII.

  A SMILING WORLD.

  Things were going well now with Florence Aylmer. She was earning money,and it was unnecessary for her to live any longer in the top attic ofPrince's Mansions. She had got over her first discomfort; her conscienceno longer pricked her; she took an interest in the situation, andsometimes laughed softly to herself. She knew that she was losing a gooddeal: that the worth and stability of her character were being slowlyundermined. But she was winning success: the world was smiling at herjust because she was successful, and she resolved to go on now, defyingfate.

  She wrote often to her mother and to Kitty Sharston, and told both hermother and Kitty of her successes. She never wrote to Bertha exceptabout business. Bertha as a rule, enclosed directed envelopes toherself, so that Florence's writing should not be seen by Mrs. Aylmer orTrevor or any guests who might be staying in the house. Bertha was verywise in her generation, and when she did a wrong thing she knew at leasthow to do that wrong thing cleverly.

  Florence was now quite friendly with Edith Franks. Edith took aninterest in her; she still believed that there was something behind thescenes--something which she could not quite fathom--but at the sametime she fully and with an undivided heart believed in Florence's greatgenius, as did also her brother Tom.

  By Edith's advice Florence secured the room next to hers, and the girlswere now constantly together. Tom often dropped in during the evenings,and took them many times to the play.

  Florence began to own that life could be enjoyable even with a heavyconscience and tarnished honour. She was shocked with herself forfeeling so. She knew that she had fallen a good many steps lower thanshe had fallen long ago when she was an inmate of Cherry Court School;nevertheless, there seemed no hope or chance of going back. She had togo forward and trust to her secret never being discovered.

  Early in November, or, rather, the latter end of October, her firststory was published in the _Argonaut_. It was sufficiently striking,terse, and original to receive immediate attention from more than onegood review. She was spoken of as a young writer of great promise, and awell-known critic took the trouble to write a short paper on her story.This mention gave her, as Tom assured her, a complete success. She wasquoted in several society journals, and one well-known paper asked forher photograph. All the expectations of the _Argonaut_ were more thanrealised, and some people said that Florence was the coming woman, andthat her writings would be quite as popular as those of the best-knownAmerican fiction writers. Hers was the first short story of any promisewhich had appeared in the English magazines for some time. The nextfrom her pen was eagerly awaited, and it was decided that it was to bepublished in the December number.

  Bertha, having provided Florence with the story, she carefully re-wroteit in her own hand, and it was sent to the editor. It was a better storythan the first, but more critical. There was a cruel note about it. Itwas harrowing. It seemed to go right down into the heart, and to pierceit with a note of pain. It was a wonderful story for a girl ofFlorence's age to have written. The editor was charmed.

  "I don't like the tone of the story," he said to Franks; "I don't thinkthat I should particularly care to have its author for my wife ordaughter, but its genius is undoubted. That girl will make a very bigmark. We have been looking for someone like her for a long time. We havehad no big stars in our horizon. She may do anything if she goes on aswell as she has begun."

  "And yet she does not look specially clever," said Franks, in acontemplative voice. "Her speech is nothing at all remarkable; in fact,in conversation I think her rather dull than otherwise."

  "I was taken with her face on the whole," said the editor; "it wasstrong, I think, and, with all our knowledge, we can never tell what isinside a brain. She at least has a remarkable one, Franks. We must makemuch of her: I don't want her to be snapped up by other editors. We mustraise her terms. I will give her three guineas a thousand words for thisnew story."

  Franks called upon his sister and Florence Aylmer on the evening of theday when the editor of the _Argonaut_ made this remark: he found themboth in his sister's comfortable room. Florence was reclining on thesofa, and Edith was busily engaged over some of her biologicalspecimens.

  "Oh, dear!" said Franks, as he entered the room; "why do you bring thosehorrors home, Edith?"

  "They are all right; I keep them in spirit," she replied. "Don'tinterrupt me; go and talk to Florence: she is in a bad humour thisevening."

  "In a bad humour, are you?" said Franks. He drew a chair up, and sat atthe foot of Florence's sofa.

  She was nicely dressed, her hair was fashionably arranged, she had lostthat look of hunger which had made her face almost painful to see, andshe received Franks with a coolness which was new-born within her.

  "I don't know why you should be depressed," he said; "anyhow, I hope tohave the great pleasure of driving the evil spirits away. I have comewith good news."

  "Indeed!" answered Florence.

  "Yes; my editor, Mr. Anderson, is so pleased with your second story,'The Judas Tree,' that he is going to raise his terms. You are toreceive three guineas a thousand words for your manuscript. It is, Ithink, exactly six thousand words in length. He has asked me to hand youa cheque to-night. Will you accept it?"

  As Franks spoke, he took out his pocket-book and handed Florence acheque for eighteen guineas.

  "You will be a rich girl before long," he said.

  "It seems like it," she answered. She glanced at the cheque without anyadditional colour coming to her face, and laid it quietly on a littletable by her side.

  "And now, Miss Aylmer, there is something I specially want you to dofor me. I hope you will not refuse it."

  "I will certainly do what I can," she answered.

  "It is this. The _Argonaut_ is, of course, our monthly magazine. Itholds the very first position amongst the six-pennies, and has, as youdoubtless know, an enormous circulation. You will very soon be thefashion. We are about to issue a weekly paper, a sort of review. Wetrust it will eclipse even the _Spectator_ and the _Saturday_, and wewant a paper from your pen. We want it to be on a special subject--asubject which is likely to cause attention. Can you and will you do it?Anderson begged of me to put the question to you, and I do so also on myown account."

  "But what subject do you want me to write upon?" said Florence, feelingsick and faint, and yet not knowing at first how to reply.

  "The subject is to be about women as they are. They are coming to thefront, and I want you to talk about them just as you please. You may besatirical or not, as it strikes your fancy. I want you in especial toattack them with regard to the aesthetic craze which is so much infashion now. If you like to show them that they look absolutely foolishin their greenery-yallery gowns, and their hair done up in a wisp, andall the rest of the thing, why, do so; then you can throw in a noteabout a girl like my sister."

  "Oh, come!" exclaimed Edith, from her distant table, "that would behorribly unfair."

  "Anyhow, I want you to write about woman in her improved aspects; thatis the main thing," said Franks. "Will you do it or will you not?"

  Florence thought for a wild moment. It would be impossible for Bertha tohelp her with this paper. She could not get information orsubject-matter in time. Dare she do it?

  "I would rather not," she said.

  Franks face fell.

  "That is scarcely kind," he said; "you simply must do it."

  "You will not refuse Tom," said Edith, who had apparently not beenlistening, but who now jumped up and came forward. "What is it, Tom?What do you want Florence to do?"

  Tom briefly explained matters.

  "It is for our new venture," he said. "Miss Aylmer is scarcely thefashion yet, but she soon will be. It is to be a signed article--'Womanin Her Many Crazes' can be the title. No one can know more on the matterthan she does."

  "Oh, I'll prime you up with facts, if that is all," said Edith; "youmust do it: it would be most ungenerous and unkind to refuse Tom afterthe way he has broug
ht you to the front."

  "But I must refuse," said Florence. She rose from the sofa; her facelooked pale with desperation.

  "That horrid secret, whatever it is, is beginning to awake once more,"thought the astute Edith to herself. She looked at Florence with whatTom called her scientific face.

  "Sit down," she said, "sit down. Why should you not do it?"

  "Because I am no good at all with that class of paper."

  "But your style will be invaluable, and you need not say much," saidFranks. "We want just the same simple terse, purely Saxon style. We wantone or two of your ideas. You need not make it three thousand wordslong: it does not really matter. You will be well paid. I have theeditor's permission to offer you twelve guineas. Surely you will notrefuse such a valuable cheque."

  Florence looked with almost vacant eyes at the cheque which was lying onthe table near her. The whole thing seemed like black magic.

  "I suppose I must try," she said; "I have never written any prose worthreading in my life. You will be dreadfully disappointed; I know youwill."

  "I am quite certain we shall not be disappointed; anyhow, I am going torisk it. You must not go back on your promise. Write your paperto-morrow morning when you are fresh; then post it to me in the evening.Good-bye. I am awfully obliged to you."

  The young journalist took his departure before Florence had time torealise what she had done. She heard his steps descending the stairs,and then turned with lack-leisure eyes to Edith.

  "What have I done?" she cried.

  "Done?" said Edith, in a tone of some impatience. "Why, your duty, ofcourse. You could not refuse Tom after all his kindness to you. Wherewould you be but for him--but for me? Do you suppose that, just becauseyou are clever, you would have reached the position you have done if ithad not been for my brother? You must do your very best for him."

  "Oh, don't scold me, please, Edith," said poor Florence.

  "I don't mean to; but really your queer ways of accepting Tom's favoursexasperate me now and then."

  "Perhaps I had better go to my own room," said Florence. "I am in yourway, am I not?"

  "When you talk nonsense you are. When you are sensible I delight to haveyou here. Lie down on the sofa once more, and go on reading this lastnovel of George Eliot's: it will put some grit into you."

  Edith returned once more to her task, lit a strong lamp which she hadgot for this special purpose, put on her magnifying-glasses, adjustedher microscope, and set to work.

  Florence knew that she was lost to all externals for the next hour orso. She herself took up her book and tried to read. Half an hour beforethis book had interested her, now she found it dry as sawdust; she couldnot follow the argument nor interest herself in the tale. She let itdrop on her lap, and stared straight before her. How was she to do thatwhich she said she would do? Her crutch was no longer available. Theghost who really supplied all her brilliant words and felicitous turnsof speech and quaint ideas was not to be secured on any termswhatsoever. What could she do?

  She felt restless and uncomfortable.

  "I did wrong ever to consent to it, but now that I have begun I must goon taking in the golden sovereigns," she said to herself, and she tookup the cheque for eighteen guineas, looked at it eagerly, and put itinto her purse. Starvation was indeed now far removed. Florence couldhelp her mother and support herself; but, nevertheless, although she wasnow well fed and well clothed and comfortably housed, she at thatmoment had the strongest regret of all her life for the old hungry dayswhen she had been an honest, good girl, repentant of the folly of heryouth, and able with a clear conscience to look all men in the face.

  "But as I have begun I must go on," she said to herself. "To courtdiscovery now would be madness. I cannot, I will not court it. Come whatmay, I must write that article. How am I to do it, and in twenty-fourhours? Oh, if I could only telegraph to Bertha!"