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The Time of Roses, a fiction by L. T. Meade |
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Chapter 35. The Essay Arouses Criticism |
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_ CHAPTER XXXV. THE ESSAY AROUSES CRITICISM Thomas Franks was much relieved when, on the morning after her return to town, Florence sent him the paper which Bertha had written. Florence herself took the precaution to carefully copy it out. As she did so, she could scarcely read the words; there were burning spots on her cheeks, and her head ached terribly. Having completed her task, she sent it off by post, and Tom Franks, in good time, received Bertha's work. He read it over at first with some slight trepidation, then with smiling eyes and a heart beating high with satisfaction. He took it immediately to his chief. "Ah! this is all right," he said; "read it: you will be pleased. It quite fulfills the early promise." Mr. Anderson did glance rapidly over Bertha's paper. "Miss Florence Aylmer has done good work," he said, when he had finished reading her pungent and caustic words; "and yet--" A thoughtful expression crossed his face, he was silent for a moment, then he looked up at the young man, who was standing near. "I doubt if in any way such a paper will help our new production," he said. "It is difficult for me to believe that any girl could write in what I will call so agnostic a spirit. There is a bitterness, a want of belief, an absence of all feeling in this production. I admit its cleverness; but I should be sorry to know much of the woman who has written it." "I admire talent in any form," said Tom Franks; "it will be inserted, of course. People who want smart things will like it, I am sure. Believe me, you are mistaken; it will do good, not harm." "It may do good from a financial point of view: doubtless it will," said Mr. Anderson; "but I wish the girl who has those great abilities would turn them to a higher form of expression. She might do great things then, and move the world in a right way." "I grant you that the whole thing is pessimistic," said Franks; "but its cleverness redeems it. It will call attention, and the next story by Miss Aylmer which appears in the Argonaut will be more appreciated than her last." "See that that story appears in the next number," said his chief to Franks, and the young man left the room. Florence received in due time a proof of her paper for correction. There was little alteration, however, needed in Bertha's masterly essay; but Florence was now obliged to read it carefully, and her heart stood still once or twice as she read the expressions which she herself was supposed to have given birth to. She had just finished correcting the proofs when Edith Franks came into the room. "I have just seen Tom," she said; "he is delighted with your essay. Is that it? Have you corrected it? May I look through it?" "I would much rather you did not read it, Edith." "What nonsense! It is to be published, and I shall see it then." "Well, read it, if you must, when it is in the paper; only I would rather you didn't read it at all." "What do you mean?" "I don't like it." "Why do you write what you don't like?" said Edith, fixing her sharp eyes on her new friend's face. "One does all sorts of things perhaps without reason; one writes as one is impelled," said Florence. Edith went up to her, and after a brief argument possessed herself of the long slip of proof she was holding in her hand. "I am going to read it now," she said; "I always said you were neurotic: even your talents tend in that direction. Oh, good gracious! what an extraordinary opening sentence! You are a queer girl!" Edith read on to the end. She then handed the paper back to Florence. "What do you think of it?" said Florence, noticing that she was silent. "I hate it." "I thought you would. Oh. Edith, I am glad!" "What do you mean by that?" "Because I so cordially hate it too." "I would not publish it if I were in your place," said Edith; "it may do harm. It is against the woman who is struggling so bravely. It turns her noblest feelings into ridicule. Why do you write such things, Florence?" "One cannot help one's self; you know that," replied Florence. "Rubbish! One can always help doing wrong. You have been queer all through. I cannot pretend to understand you. But there, as Tom admires it so much, I suppose it must go into the paper. Will you put it into an envelope, and I will post it?" Florence did so. She directed the envelope to the editor, and Edith took it out with her. As she was leaving the room, she turned to Florence and said: "Try and make your next thing more healthy. I hope to goodness very few people will read this; it is bad from first to last." She ran downstairs. Just as she was about to drop the little packet into the pillar-box, she glanced at her watch. "I shall have time to go and see Tom. I don't like this thing," she said to herself. "Miss Aylmer ought not to write what will do direct harm. The person who has written this paper might well not believe in any God. I don't like it. It ought not to be published. I will speak to Tom about it. Some of the worst passages might at least be altered or expunged." Edith hailed a hansom, was taken Citywards, and found herself in her brother's own private room shortly before he was finishing for the day. "Here is the work of your precious protegee," she said, flinging the manuscript on Tom's desk. He took it up. "Has she corrected it? That's right; I want to send it to the printer. By the way, Edith, have you read it?" "I grieve to say I have." Tom Franks looked at her in a puzzled way. "Why do you speak in that tone?" "Because it is so horrible and so false, Tom. Why do you publish it?" "You agree with Mr. Anderson; he doesn't like it either." "Don't send it to the printers like that. Poor Florence must be a little mad. Cut out some of the passages. Give it to me, and I'll show you. This one, for instance, and this." Tom Franks took the paper from her. "It goes in entire, or it does not go in at all," he said; "its cleverness will carry the day. I must speak to Miss Aylmer. She must not give vent to her true feelings; in future, she must put a check on them." "She must have a terrible mind," said Edith. "If I had known it, I don't think I could have made her my friend." "Oh, don't give her up now," said Tom; "poor girl, she is to be pitied." "Of course she is; great talent like hers often means a tendency to insanity. I must watch her; she is a curious and interesting study." "She is monstrously clever," said Tom Franks; "I admire her very much." Edith, feeling that she had done no good, left the office. _ |
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