The Time of Roses

by L. T. Meade

CHAPTER XXVIII.

A SMILING WORLD.

Things were going well now with Florence Aylmer. She was earning money, and it was unnecessary for her to live any longer in the top attic of Prince's Mansions. She had got over her first discomfort; her conscience no longer pricked her; she took an interest in the situation, and sometimes laughed softly to herself. She knew that she was losing a good deal: that the worth and stability of her character were being slowly undermined. But she was winning success: the world was smiling at her just because she was successful, and she resolved to go on now, defying fate.

She wrote often to her mother and to Kitty Sharston, and told both her mother and Kitty of her successes. She never wrote to Bertha except about business. Bertha as a rule, enclosed directed envelopes to herself, so that Florence's writing should not be seen by Mrs. Aylmer or Trevor or any guests who might be staying in the house. Bertha was very wise in her generation, and when she did a wrong thing she knew at least how to do that wrong thing cleverly.

Florence was now quite friendly with Edith Franks. Edith took an interest in her; she still believed that there was something behind the scenes—something which she could not quite fathom—but at the same time she fully and with an undivided heart believed in Florence's great genius, as did also her brother Tom.

By Edith's advice Florence secured the room next to hers, and the girls were now constantly together. Tom often dropped in during the evenings, and took them many times to the play.

Florence began to own that life could be enjoyable even with a heavy conscience and tarnished honour. She was shocked with herself for feeling so. She knew that she had fallen a good many steps lower than she had fallen long ago when she was an inmate of Cherry Court School; nevertheless, there seemed no hope or chance of going back. She had to go forward and trust to her secret never being discovered.

Early in November, or, rather, the latter end of October, her first story was published in the Argonaut. It was sufficiently striking, terse, and original to receive immediate attention from more than one good review. She was spoken of as a young writer of great promise, and a well-known critic took the trouble to write a short paper on her story. This mention gave her, as Tom assured her, a complete success. She was quoted in several society journals, and one well-known paper asked for her photograph. All the expectations of the Argonaut were more than realised, and some people said that Florence was the coming woman, and that her writings would be quite as popular as those of the best-known American fiction writers. Hers was the first short story of any promise which had appeared in the English magazines for some time. The next from her pen was eagerly awaited, and it was decided that it was to be published in the December number.

Bertha, having provided Florence with the story, she carefully re-wrote it in her own hand, and it was sent to the editor. It was a better story than the first, but more critical. There was a cruel note about it. It was harrowing. It seemed to go right down into the heart, and to pierce it with a note of pain. It was a wonderful story for a girl of Florence's age to have written. The editor was charmed.