Part 54 (1/2)
Franks uttered an angry exclamation.
”Have you forced your way into my room about that?” he said.
”I have. You have received and published three stories _purporting_ to be by the pen of Florence Aylmer. You have also published one or two articles by the same person. You are waiting for the fourth story, which was promised to the readers of the _Argonaut_ in last month's number.
The first three stories made a great sensation. You are impatient and disturbed because the fourth story has not come to hand. Here it is.”
Bertha hastily opened a small packet which she held in her hand and produced a ma.n.u.script.
”Look at it,” she said; ”read the opening sentence. I am not in the slightest hurry; take your own time, but read, if you will, the first page. If the style is not the style of the old stories, if the matter is not equal in merit to the stories already published, then I will own to you that I came here on a false errand and will ask you to forgive me.”
Franks, with still that strange sense of being mesmerized, received the ma.n.u.script from Bertha's long slim hand. He sank into his office chair and listlessly turned the pages.
He read a sentence or two and then looked up at the clock.
”I have wired to Miss Aylmer to expect me at twelve: it is past that hour now. I really must ask you to pardon me.”
”Miss Aylmer will not be in. Miss Aylmer has left Prince's Mansions. I happened to call there and know what I am saying. Will you go on reading? You want your story. I believe your printers are waiting for it even now.”
Franks fidgeted impatiently. Once again his eyes lit upon the page. As he read, Bertha's own eyes devoured his face. She knew each word of that first page. She had taken special and extra pains with it; it represented her best, her very best; it was strong, perfect in style, and her treatment of her subject was original; there was a note of pa.s.sion and pathos, there was a deep undercurrent of human feeling in her words. Franks read to the end.
If he turned the page Bertha felt that her victory would be won--if he closed the ma.n.u.script she had still to fight her battle. Her heart beat quickly. She wondered what the Fates had in store for her.
Franks at last came to the final word; he hesitated, half looked up, then his fingers trembled. He turned the page. Bertha saw by the look on his face that he had absolutely forgotten her. She gave a brief sigh: the time of tension was over, the victory was won. She rose and approached him.
”I can take that to another house,” she said.
”No, no,” said Franks; ”there is stuff in this. It is quite up to the usual mark. So Florence gave it to you to bring to me. Now, you know, I do not quite like the tone nor does my chief; but the talent is unmistakable.”
”You will publish it, then?”
”Certainly. I see it is the usual length. If you will pardon me, as things are pressing, I will ring and give this to the printers.”
”One moment first. You think that ma.n.u.script has been written by Florence Aylmer?”
”Why not? Of course it has!” He looked uneasily from the paper in his hand to the girl who stood before him. ”What do you mean?”
”I have something to tell you. You may be angry with me, but I do not much care. _I_ possess the genius, not Florence Aylmer; _I_ am the writer of that story. Florence Aylmer wrote one thing for you, a schoolgirl essay, which you returned. I wrote the papers which the public liked; _I_ wrote the stories which the public devoured. I am the woman of genius; I am the ghost behind Florence Aylmer; I am the real author. You can give up the false: the real has come to you at last.”
”You must be telling me an untruth,” said Franks. He staggered back, his face became green, his eyes flashed angrily.