Chapter XXXVI: A Letter From Home

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.