Part 38 (1/2)
”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 n.o.blest feelings into ridicule. Why do you write such things, Florence?”
”One cannot help one's self; you know that,” replied Florence.
”Rubbis.h.!.+ 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 G.o.d.
I don't like it. It ought not to be published. I will speak to Tom about it. Some of the worst pa.s.sages 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 finis.h.i.+ng for the day.
”Here is the work of your precious protegee,” she said, flinging the ma.n.u.script on Tom's desk. He took it up.
”Has she corrected it? That's right; I want to send it to the printer.