CHAPTER XVI.
ON THE BRINK OF AN ABYSS.
Florence sat for a long time with the manuscript of Bertha's story onher lap. Having read the letter once, she did not trouble herself toread it again. It was the sort of letter Bertha always wrote--the letterwhich meant temptation, the letter which seemed to drag its victim tothe 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 inreturning it to Bertha, or shall I--"
She did not finish even in her own mind the last suggestion which formeditself in her brain. She had not read the title of the manuscript, buther thoughts kept wandering round and round it to the exclusion ofeverything 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 amoment, and saw that they were all written out very neatly, in a sort ofcopper-plate writing which was not the least like Bertha's. Bertha had abold, dashing sort of hand, but this hand might be the work ofanyone--the ordinary clerk used such a handwriting. The words were veryeasily read. Florence caught herself imbibing the meaning of a wholesentence; then, with a sudden, quick movement, she dashed themanuscript away from her to the other side of the room, and walked overand stood by the open window looking across London. She had a headache,brought on through intense excitement, and the view, for the greaterpart concealed by the interminable London houses, scarcely appealed toher.
"It all looks worldly and sordid," thought the girl to herself. "Isuppose it is very nice that I should have this peep across thosechimney-tops, and should see those tops of houses, tier upon tier, faraway as the skyline, but I am sick of them. They all look sordid. Theyall look cruel. London is a place to crush a girl; but I--I _won't_ becrushed."
She paced up and down her room. There was not the slightest doubt thatBertha's letter was the one subject of her thoughts. Suddenly she cameto a resolution.
"I know what I'll do," she said to herself; "I won't read thatmanuscript, but I'll get Miss Edith Franks to read it. I won't tell herwho has written it; she can draw her own conclusions. I'll get her toread it aloud to me, and perhaps she will tell me what it is worth. Ihope, I do hope to God that it is worth nothing--that it is poor andbadly written, and that she will advise the author to put it into thefire, and not to waste her time offering it to a publisher. She shall bethe judge of its merits; but I won't decide yet whether I shall use itor not--only she shall tell me whether it is worth using. I am sure itwon't be worth using. Bertha wrote a clever essay long ago, but she doesnot write much, and she must be out of practice; and why should she beso clever and able to do everything so well? But Miss Franks shalldecide. She looks as if she could give one a very downright honestopinion, and she is literary and cultivated, and would know if the thingis 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 afresh white linen collar, and soon after nine o'clock, with themanuscript in her hand, she ran downstairs, and presently knocked at thedoor of No. 17. The brisk voice of Miss Franks said: "Come in!" andFlorence entered.
"That is right," said Edith Franks; "I am right glad to see you. What doyou 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 absolutelyluxurious. There was a comfortable sofa, which Miss Franks told herafterwards she had contrived out of a number of old packing-cases, andthere was a deep straw armchair lined with chintz and abundantlycushioned, and on a table pushed against the wall and on the mantelpiecewere jars full of lovely flowers--roses, verbena, sweetbriar, andquantities of pinks. The room was fragrant with these flowers, andFlorence 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; youare to lie on the sofa. Come: put up your feet this minute."
"But I really don't want to," said Florence, protesting, and beginningto laugh.
"But I want you to. You can do as you please in the restaurant, and youcan do as you please in your own diggings, but in mine you are to do asI wish. Now then, up go your feet. I am making the most delicious cocoaby a new recipe. I bought a spirit-lamp this morning. You cannot thinkhow 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 andthen--nothing very dreadful. I have nothing to-night of the leastimportance, 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 sofamade out of packing-cases was extremely soft and comfortable. MissFranks put pillows for her guest's comfort and laid a light couvre-piedover her feet.
"Now then," she said, "a little gentle breeze is coming in at thewindow, and the roses and pinks and mignonette will smell more sweetlystill as the night advances. I will not light the lamp yet, for there issplendid moonlight, and it is such a witching hour. I can make the cocoabeautifully by moonlight. It will be quite romantic to do so, and thenafterwards I will show you my charming reading-lamp. I have a lamp witha green shade lined with white, the best possible thing for the eyes. Iwill make you a shade when I have time. Now then, watch me make thecocoa, or, if you prefer it, look out of the window and let the moonsoothe your ruffled feelings."
"You are very kind, and I don't know how to thank you," 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 amedical student for nothing. I tell you you are anaemic and neurotic;indeed, your nerves have reached a rare state of irritability. At thepresent 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 becauseyou are in a crux, and neurotic and anaemic. Now then, look at your dearlady moon, and let me make the cocoa in peace."
"What an extraordinary girl!" thought Florence to herself; "but Isuppose I like her. She is so fearfully downright, I feel almost afraidof 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 extinguisheron 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 andmignonette gave forth such intoxicating odours, she laid a cup ofsteaming frothy cocoa by Florence's side, and a plate of biscuits notfar off.
"Now then, eat, drink, and be thankful," said Miss Franks. "I love cocoaat this hour. Yours is made entirely of milk, so it will be vastlynourishing. I am going to enjoy my cup also."
She flung herself into the straw chair lined with cushions, and took herown supper daintily and slowly. While she ate, her bright eyes keptdarting about the room noting everything, and from time to timefastening themselves with the keenest penetration on Florence's flushedface.
Florence felt that never in the whole course of her life had she enjoyedanything more than that cup of cocoa.
When the meal was finished Miss Franks jumped up and began to wash thecups and saucers.
"You must let me help you," said Florence. She sprang very determinedlyto her feet. "I have done these things over and over for mother athome," 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 allmind 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 wasalso trimmed with heavy lace.
"I have a sister in Russia, and she sent me a lot of these things when Itold her I meant to take up housekeeping," said Miss Franks. "Now thatwe have washed up and put everything into apple-pie order, what aboutthat man
uscript?"
"What manuscript?" said Florence, starting and colouring.
"The one you brought into the room. You don't suppose I didn't see? Youhave hidden it just under that pillow on the sofa. Lie down once more onyour place of repose, and let me run my eye over it."
"Would you?" said Florence. She coloured very deeply. "Would you greatlymind reading it aloud?"
"You have written it, I presume?" said Miss Franks.
Florence did not say anything. She shut up her mouth into rather a hardline. Edith Franks nodded twice to herself; then, putting on herpincenez, she proceeded to read the manuscript. She had a perfectlywell-trained voice without a great amount of expression in it. She readon at first slowly and smoothly. At the end of the first page she pausedfor 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 themeaning 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," saidFlorence then, in an almost cross tone.
"My dear, that answer of yours requires medicine. I shall certainlyinsist upon your taking a tonic to your room with you. I can dispense alittle already, and have some directions by me. I can make up somethingwhich will do you a lot of good."
"Do go on reading," said Florence.
Edith Franks proceeded with the manuscript. Her even voice still flowedon without pause or interruption. At the end of the third or fourthpage, however, she ceased to make any remarks: she turned the pages nowrapidly, and about the middle of the story her voice changed its tone.It was no longer even nor smooth: it became broken as though somethingoppressed her, then it rose triumphant and excited. She had finished:she flung the manuscript back almost at Florence's head with a gaylaugh.
"And you pretend, you pretend," she said, "that you are a starvinggirl--a girl out of a situation! You are a sham, Miss Aylmer--you are asham."
"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 youwritten 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 itin both of hers.
"Flexible fingers," she said, "but not exactly, not precisely the handof an artist, and yet, and yet you are an artist through and through. Mydear, you are a genius."
"I do not know why you say that."
"Because you have written that story, that queer, weird, extraordinarytale. It is not the plot alone: it is the way you have told it, the waythe figures group themselves together, the strength that is in them, theway you have grasped the situation; and you have made all thosecharacters live. They move backwards and forwards; they are humanbeings. I am so glad Johanna won the victory, she was so brave, and itwas such a cruel temptation. Oh, I shall dream of that story, and yetyou say you have written very little."
"You jump to conclusions," said Florence. She spoke in a queer voice. "Inever 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 ajournalist, and he has talked to me about these things. He is a veryclever journalist, and at one time I had a faint sort of dream that Imight 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 toothankful 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 tobe an author, a writer of short stories, a second Bret Harte. Oh, thisis splendid, superb!"
Florence got up from her sofa; she felt a little giddy. Her face wasvery 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. Ishall 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 Iwill tell him about you, and ask him what he would recommend. You mustnot 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 obligedto 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 tobed. Thank you so very much."
"But, I say, you are leaving your darling, precious manuscript behindyou." Miss Franks darted after Florence, and thrust the manuscript intoher hand.
"Take care of it," she said; "it is the work of a genius. Now, goodnight."
Florence went upstairs. Slowly she entered her dismal little attic. Shelit a candle, and locked her door. She laid the manuscript on the chestof drawers. She went some steps away from it as though she were afraidof it; then with a hasty movement she unlocked the drawer where she kepther 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 asever she could, and got into bed, and covered her head so that sheshould not see the moon shining into her room, and said under herbreath: "O God, let me sleep as soon as possible, for I cannot, I darenot think."